Enthalpy
by Elemental-Analysis
Summary: When Harry, Ron, and Hermione are captured by Snatchers and taken to Malfoy Manor, a different scene plays out.  Now, Hermione must learn to survive...as a prisoner of war.  Scabior's prisoner.
1. The Beginning

Hello! And welcome to my second story. I have no idea if it's going to turn out to be any good, but I've recently become afflicted with the inspiration bug, and I've been itching to write a Scabior/Hermione piece for awhile. So here it is. I don't know how long it'll turn out to be, or if there will be any interest at all in it, so please do let me know!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I making any money off of writing this fanfiction.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: The Beginning<strong>

"_I'm going to have a conversation with this one…girl to girl…!"_

Bellatrix's words echoed dimly in Hermione's mind. She lay still upon the floor, paralyzed with fear and pain. She could see her arm through her tears, the letters blurred but legible.

_Mudblood. _

The ugly word marred her pale skin. Tiny rivulets of blood oozed from the broken flesh, an itching discomfort added to the pain.

She shivered; Bellatrix was nearby, finished with the goblin she had called. The dark witch was about to turn again on Hermione, but there was a sudden shout from the stairs that distracted her. Hermione whipped her head around to see Ron charging at Bellatrix, Harry just behind.

Death Eaters poured back into the room, apparently also hearing Ron's cry. Hermione stumbled to her knees, blood rushing to her head. Her vision blackened for a second, and she took a deep breath and lunged to her feet. She had to fight now. No time for tears.

She wobbled unsteadily, aware of the sounds of battle around her. She scrabbled on the floor for something she could use as a weapon, anything. She desperately missed her wand. Her eyes scanned the floorboards, once immaculate and now adorned with the black burn marks of curses. She ducked under a table, spotting a split chair leg that had rolled there.

Well, it certainly wasn't a wand, but…she gripped the smooth wood in her hand, the jagged end pointing away from her. It would have to do for a weapon. She maneuvered out from under the table, brandishing the broken wood like a sword. She turned on the first body that moved toward her, slashing at it with a small shriek.

It was a Death Eater that she did not recognize, and he leered at her, amusement clear upon his face. Hermione backed away from him, her grip tightening on the chair leg. She could feel the thrum of adrenaline as it coursed through her blood. Her breathing quickened.

Her eyes locked on the nameless man before her, she took another step back, mind whirling to find a way to deflect his inevitable attack. She almost missed the slight jerk of the man's torso as he faltered suddenly, his eyes shifting to something behind her.

She reacted a second too late. An icy thrill of fear shot down her spine as she felt a knife up against her throat, one arm pulled behind her. The chair leg dropped from her hand, clattering to the ground.

"Put down your wands!" Bellatrix's words rang out in triumph. Harry and Ron froze, staring. Bellatrix pushed the blade into Hermione's skin, just enough to draw blood. Hermione couldn't help the whimper that escaped her, making Bellatrix cackle. Her friends held their hands at eye level, letting their wands fall from their hands. Hermione closed her eyes briefly before focusing them on Harry and Ron.

_I'm so sorry_, she tried to convey to them. _I'm so, so sorry…_

She could smell the foul breath as Bellatrix breathed next to her ear. She felt the curls of the woman's hair tickling her ear.

"Draco, get their wands!" Bellatrix's voice was like nails on chalkboard. Hermione flinched involuntarily, making her captor's grip tighten painfully about her forearm, digging unmercifully into her cuts. Hermione bit her lip to keep from crying out, forcing herself to focus on her surroundings.

Draco was retrieving the fallen wands, hastily snatching them up and then moving back against the fireplace with his father and mother, whose own wands were both upon her friends. His eyes shifted nervously from his aunt to Harry and Ron, who were by now being restrained by Death Eaters. They were made to kneel, their ankles tied and hands restrained behind their backs. A gruff _Silencio _was cast by one of the Death Eaters.

It was, to Hermione's desolate horror, the unfortunate timing that the Stinging Hex she'd cast was beginning to rapidly fade from Harry's face. She watched as the swelling disappeared, the mottled and deformed skin remolding. Her stomach twisted into nauseating knots. It was all over now. She heard the excited gasp from beside her, and suddenly she was thrown to the floor, arms and legs bound magically to the tile with unyielding tethers. She raised her head, unable to look away as Bellatrix pranced across the hall and crouched down to peer intently at Harry's face.

"And so it is…!" Her whisper echoed in the deathly quiet hall. She pushed the Gryffindor's tousled hair to the side, revealing the telling scar. "Harry Potter!" Her excitement and pleasure were uncontainable, and she rose and turned, victory etched across her face.

"We've got Harry bloody Potter!" she cried exuberantly. Hermione's stomach lurched again, making her feel sick. She could feel her throat closing in.

"Lucius!" Bellatrix screeched, turning to her brother-in-law, "Summon the Dark Lord!" Her eyes were wide and wild, her words echoing in the otherwise quiet room.

The blonde stepped forward from the fireplace, yanking up his sleeve and withdrawing his wand from his black cane. Hermione watched with certain dread. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was on the good side wasn't she? They weren't supposed to lose. They weren't supposed to die. Not now. She felt the tears and the panic coursing through her, and she looked to Ron. He stared back at her, eyes equally frightened and yearning.

Lucius pointed his wand to his skin. There was absolute silence.

"Ahem," a timely voice rang from the doorway, causing Lucius to stop. Everyone turned to face the intruder, and Hermione craned her neck to see. The Snatcher that had captured them leaned leisurely against the doorframe. Hermione felt a surge of undiluted anger and hatred upon seeing him. The Death Eaters, too, looked less than pleased to see him.

"Now I don' mean to interrupt wot I'm sure will be an impor'ant mee'ing," he began languidly, blithely ignoring the baleful stares of the Death Eaters, "But I was jus' won'drin'…wot'd become of these two." He waggled his fingers at Ron and Hermione, before continuing, "You know, wot now you've got Po'er."

His eyes alighted on Hermione's prone form, eyeing her lasciviously. Hermione glared back, revolted, and Ron growled and shifted angrily in his bonds.

Bellatrix eyed the Snatcher, appraising him.

"It's the Mudblood girl you want then, is it?" The man gave a slight smile and a bow.

"If the lady 'as no need for 'er any longer…" he trailed off suggestively.

Bellatrix blew a strand of hair away from her face.

"Fine then," she snapped irritably, clearly impatient to call Voldemort, "We have the boy. Take the little piece of filth, if you want her. Kill the blood traitor."

"No!" The words flew from Hermione's lips, a terrible scream against the deathly quiet. Ron had gone completely white, a testament to his fear, as he wrestled desperately against his ties. Harry struggled soundlessly against his own bonds, his efforts equally fruitless.

Bellatrix let out a slow laugh, at once to Hermione's side with a malicious smile upon her face.

"No?" she sang, standing above Hermione. "You _dare _defy me, little girl? What could _you _do to stop me?" Her voice was taunting. Hermione refused to back down, glaring up at her through the tears. Her whole body shook.

"You're despicable," she hissed. An angry tear fell from her face. "You bring shame to the Wizarding World!"

Bellatrix's eyes darkened, fury evident upon her face.

"_I _disgrace the Wizarding World? How dare you!" She was livid. "I am a Pureblood! It is dirt like _you,_" she said with hatred, "That will destroy the Wizarding World!" She raised her wand, preparing to strike. Hermione braced herself.

"_Crucio!" _she yelled, wand pointed directly at Hermione's heart.

Hermione began screaming instantly. It felt like every tissue, every muscle fiber in her body was on fire, a splintering pain that radiated in sharp bolts from her chest outward to her fingers and toes. She convulsed on the floor, the pain racking her body with unending sobs. It felt like an eternity before suddenly the pain vanished altogether and she was left twitching on the floor, in shock.

She saw Bellatrix's profile above her, her wand lowered. Draco was next to her, his hand on his aunt's wrist, gently directing the wand away from Hermione's abused body. Bellatrix was looking at him, brow creased. He was speaking, but the blood that pounded in Hermione's ears muted the words.

"…Aunt…must summon…now," he was saying. Bellatrix snapped her head up, giving a sharp nod of her head. She turned away from Hermione then, back to Harry and Ron. She began barking orders, speaking rapidly. Draco shot Hermione an indescribable look before he quickly schooled his features, turning back to his aunt. She saw Lucius at the fireplace rolling up his sleeve again.

"Draco!" Bellatrix called, not a moment too soon. The blonde stood at attention. "Kill the Weasel. Scabior! If you want the bloody girl, then take her now and leave before I kill her."

Draco had gone stock still, completely rigid as he stolidly turned to approach his former schoolmate. Hermione saw the outline of the Snatcher approaching her quickly, and she felt the stirrings of rebellion beginning again. He bent muttered the counter-spell to undo her bonds. He picked her up, ignoring her weak protests.

"No…" she whispered, her voice hoarse, her mind worn and slow. She glimpsed Ron's fiery red hair beyond Draco's thin frame.

"Let's get you ou' of here, love," the Snatcher murmured in her ear.

"No…" she said again, struggling now against his iron grip, "No!" Draco was raising his wand, the Dark Mark black upon his forearm. She began to wake up from her daze.

"No!" she cried again, "No! No! Let me go! Ron! No!" She was hysterical, writhing furiously in her captor's arms. The last thing she saw before she was sucked into the vortex of Apparition was the flash of green light leaving Draco's wand.

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><p>Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ^_^<p>

Enthalpically yours,

Elemental-Analysis


	2. Don't Think

Dear Readers,

I know I promised to update quickly and I know that it seems I've failed monstrously, but I've recently lost someone very close to me so I took some time to myself. I'm getting back in the swing of things though, so here's the long-awaited chapter of Enthalpy. Enjoy!

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><p>Hermione was thrown from the Apparition tunnel with considerable force, causing her to stumble against the Snatcher and tumbling them both to the ground. She shook uncontrollably in the vice-grip of his arms.<p>

Ron was dead. That green light…gone. He was gone. She'd seen it. Though denial tried to convince her otherwise, logic dominated and terrorized her mind. She felt sick. How could he be gone, just like that…? Just a flicker of light and…

She writhed against her captor's body, infuriated and grief-stricken.

"Let me go!" she yelled. She flailed her legs about, twisting her torso against his. He trapped her arms to her heaving chest. "Take me back!" she sobbed, her efforts doubled. Dirt clung to her tear-streaked face, leaves entangling in her hair.

The Snatcher's only response was to silently tighten his grip further, bruising her skin. She continued her struggle in vain, her cries growing weaker as exhaustion crept up on her. She pushed against him until she had no more strength, and when she couldn't fight any longer she leaned into his chest and sobbed.

If she hadn't been so slow…if she had reacted a second sooner, then Bellatrix wouldn't have had her at knifepoint…and then she could've…Ron wouldn't be…

"Shh…that's right pet," Scabior crooned in her ear. Hermione shuddered. "Just calm down now." She only cried harder, loathing his touch, hating herself. It was all her fault. All her fault…

Her stomach heaved, and in a reflexive act she wrenched away from him. He released her instinctively and she vomited up her scant breakfast a few feet away. She held herself on her hands and knees, body quivering over her mess. She spit out the remaining bile once she had finished. Her ragged breathing roared in her ears, and she forced herself to breathe deeply through her nose until the woods stopped spinning. She sensed that Scabior was just behind her and to the left.

What about Harry? What had happened to him? Was he also…_No_. Angry denial had Hermione locking her jaw. Maybe Harry hadn't faced Voldemort yet. How much time had passed? She was supposed to be there for him. There must be something she could do. There _had _to be something. She just had to get away from the Snatcher first.

She rose shakily to her feet, blind determination thrumming within her. She shunted away all other thoughts but that she had to get to Harry somehow. He was still alive. He had to still be alive. Hermione supported her weight against a nearby tree, forcing her leaden feet forward one step at a time.

She hadn't taken three steps before the flare of a black leather jacket flickered in front of her. Scabior's red shirt appeared before her. She growled, eyes narrowing murderously.

"Move," she hissed through gritted teeth. Scabior laughed at her.

"An' where d'you think you're going, love?" he asked, leaning his shoulder against her tree. Hermione focused her gaze on his chest, glaring at the frayed threads of his shirt.

"I'm going back to help Harry. You can't keep me here, so get _out _of my way." Her breathing was labored, but she refused to acknowledge her creeping exhaustion. She pushed the flat of her palm against him, trying to shove her way past.

Scabior gripped her wrist, tight enough to prevent her from twisting away.

"No, love," he said calmly. He cupped her chin with his free hand, bringing her gaze up to meet his. His dark blue eyes bore intently into hers. "You're mine now. You'll be stayin' with me."

Hermione batted his hand away from her angrily, rejecting his claim to her.

"I am not _anyone's_, you foul pig, now let _go _of me!"

Scabior gave her a long look, still blocking her path. Then to her surprise, he shrugged nonchalantly and stepped aside with a gallant mocking bow. She quickly jumped back, glancing at him apprehensively. The Snatcher had an amused glint in his eye that she couldn't figure out.

"Fine then," he said to her, a concealed note of triumph in his voice, "Go. But tell me beau'iful, how will you be gettin' there? You've got no wand to Apparate." He grinned broadly at her now. "D'you even know where you are? Which direction you should go?" His grin broadened.

A quick glance around her let Hermione know that she was in the middle of a forest, foreign and nothing but trees in sight. She could be anywhere—did that specie of fern even grow in England? She forced a bubble of panic back down her throat.

"I'll get there," she answered brashly, pushing her way past him. _I've got to get there, _she thought desperately. _Away from him, at least, for a start._

She staggered away from Scabior, and he made no move to stop her. For about five minutes she continued her arduous trek, and when she looked back he was nowhere in sight.

Hermione gulped nervously and scanned the trees for the elusive Snatcher. Not a bird so much as peeped; the forest was suspiciously still. She stepped back and watched, flicking her eyes from tree to tree, looking for a shadow, a movement, anything. It was with a shaky sigh that she steeled her nerves, pursing her lips together and flaring her nostrils. She had a mission to complete, the Snatcher be damned. Somehow, someway, however impossible it seemed. She would get to Harry. A tiny voice in the corner of her mind argued against the insanity and irrationality of running headlong into an unknown wilderness, but she squashed it down forcefully.

She turned back around, shrieking in surprise as she ran headlong into Scabior's torso. Panicked, her hands entangled in his clothes and hair alike as she tried frantically to get away once more. He was laughing at her again, gripping her by the upper arms. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. His games taunted and teased her wearied mind. New tears of defeated fury pooled in her eyes, and she tried valiantly to blink them away. She shook like a leaf as she glared up at him, the absolute weariness of physical and emotional stress hitting her hard. Her hands she held limply in his grasp. She was close enough to his face that she could feel his breath on her fingertips.

"Stop playing with me," she told him, voice breaking in her anger and fatigue. She could feel her muscles tighten and knot beneath her skin, her blood still stinging with ebbing adrenaline.

"Now, love, I think you've had enough adventure for the day," he soothed mockingly, rocking her stiffened body against him. Hermione bit back her fear and anger, drawing blood from her lower lip. "An' I can't really have you runnin' off on me now, seein' as I just got ya and all. I risked my life for you, you know that?" He tightened his hug. "We'll just let you calm down now, yeah?" His voice mocked her, and he ignored her hateful glare.

So swiftly that she hardly saw it happening, he released her left arm, withdrew his wand and with a flourish, executed the too-familiar _Stupefy _curse directly at her forehead. He caught her body as she fell limp in his arms, cradling her to his chest before Apparating away.

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><p>When Hermione woke next, it was nighttime. She blinked blearily, the outline of wooden posts fuzzily coming into view. Her head pounded with the ache that accompanied the <em>Stupefy <em>curse. She was laying prone on something squashy, and upon further investigation she realized that it was a bed. She sat up with a start, the memories flooding back to her in a panic. Pushing herself to her feet, she blinked away black spots from her vision. She pressed herself against one of the bedposts for balance.

As she glanced around, she realized that she was in a tent. Like most magical tents, this one was impossibly spacious. Lavish carpets covered the floors. Brightly colored tapestries hung from the walls. A dining table made of polished dark wood stood directly opposite to her. A chandelier hung above it, its crystals sparkling in the soft candlelight. Green sofas were crammed into the centre room with matching dark brown end tables in between. It was all stolen, no doubt, unless the life of a Snatcher was more lucrative than she'd originally thought. The bed she was on was to the far right of the tent entrance, in a room that was slightly removed from the larger living area. Its entry was partially hidden by sheer green curtains, pulled to the side midway down their length. The bed was of similar dark wood, with wrought iron twisted into flowering spirals at the head and baseboards.

Having assessed that she was alone in the tent, Hermione got up and cautiously crossed the tent's floor. She lifted open the tent flap slowly, peering outside. In her reduced range of vision, she could see nothing immediately nearby, but there was clearly firelight coming from a clearing beyond a copse of trees. She left the tent and approached it warily, making as little noise as she could. She was aware of other tents around her, but she saw and heard nothing from behind her. She pushed her way through the patch of trees. When she had crept as close as she dared to the fire, she stopped, hugging a tree branch.

There was clearly a celebration of some kind going on. A party of Snatchers, by the look of them. Men drank from cheap, dirty bottles. Some danced by the fire; most talked and laughed loudly over the drunken song of a guitarist.

Fenrir Greyback was among the drinkers.

And if Fenrir Greyback was celebrating…

Hermione's mind raced. She resisted simultaneously the urge to vomit and to run. If Death Eaters were celebrating, that could only mean one thing. Voldemort had been victorious. Which had its own prerequisite…

Harry was dead.

That was it. That was the end. Finished. Done. She'd been too late; she'd failed him. Failed Ron. Failed the whole bloody Wizarding population.

She experienced a surreal moment; surely this had not happened. It couldn't have.

The truth was crushing her windpipe, closing in her throat. She knelt to the ground and let out a silent, retching sob. She was so in shock that she couldn't find tears. Her emotions flew wildly, leaving her nauseated. She heard nothing. Saw nothing. For a full minute, she was nothing. She couldn't think. She couldn't move. She forgot to breathe. She did not exist.

Reality thundered back into her chest as a painful thump crashed against her back. She fell from her kneeling position face-down into the ground, winded, coughing life back into herself. It took a moment to register that someone's foot rested on her back, pinning her down. She craned her neck upwards, gasping for air.

Scabior stood above her, watching. She could see his black leather of his coat as she inhaled dirt and grit.

"So," he drawled as she lay panting, "You're awake, finally. And just in time to celebrate!" Hermione closed her eyes, vividly picturing the malicious grin on his face. She tried not to think. If she let herself think things would only be worse for her.

"Aww, wha's the ma'er, beau'iful? Don't you want t'celebrate the Dark Lord's victory?" His words sunk into her like knives, deep and horrifically painful. A sob choked its way out of her throat and she felt the onset of tears. She turned her head away from him, uncaring of the grime that dragged through her hair, unable to look at him.

_Don't think. Don't think._

Her retreat was blocked by a familiar grip to her bruised right upper arm, and she was pulled to her feet roughly. She moaned her pain but was too stricken to form word. Scabior leaned her against the rough bark of a tree, peering into her face. She turned away, looking vaguely out into the void of wooded darkness. She willed numbness into her mind, an injection of anesthesia into her emotions. Hermione concentrated very hard on the darkness of the night.

"Yep," Scabior commented, the glee apparent in his voice. "A party's jus' what you need t' cheer you up!" Hermione could smell the rancid stench of alcohol on his breath. She felt herself being half pulled, half dragged out of the foliage and into the campsite.

"No, please…" Her choked whisper was ignored by the drunken Snatcher.

She braced herself against the torrent of emotion within her, the clearing in full view now.

"Look 'ere!" Scabior called. Drunk as they were, every man turned to face their leader. "I've got th' one an' only 'Ermione Granger of the Golden Trio! She's 'ere to celebrate wif us!" His accent was strong under the influence of the liquor. "Le's make 'er feel welcome, lads!" His words were met with cat calls of approval and drunken excitement, and he pushed her into the crowd.

_Don't think._

Hermione found herself all at once to be the center of attention, moved closer to the fire in the midst of Snatchers and Death Eaters alike. She was shoved to and fro, avoiding groping hands as best she could until she was directly in front of the roaring flames. She caught sight of Scabior seating himself on the other side of the fire, tankard in hand and watching her intently.

The sound of her own breathing was loud in her ears, her pulse in thudding syncopation with the pounding in her head; she was on the verge of tears, but fought bravely not to show it in front of these monsters. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction. She couldn't. Her Gryffindor pride reflected in the angry glint in her eyes.

One Snatcher, bedraggled and unwashed, caught her hand, gaining her attention.

"It's a good thing Scabior got _you _out of the way!" he crowed with drunken pride for his leader, "Wif'out you Potter never stood a chance against the Dark Lord!" Overly-loud cheers met his claim, hoots and hollers echoing in her ears. The man bowed to Scabior, and Hermione resisted the urge to push him into the fire pit.

Though in his intoxicated state he'd meant it entirely as praise to Scabior, the Snatcher's words lanced at her wounded heart, embedding themselves in her mind. Her breathing grew uneven. If she hadn't so _stupidly _been captured…if she had just fought harder…She felt so humiliated, so ashamed.

_Don't you dare think._

The lump growing in her throat was making it difficult to breathe. She was losing the battle against her emotions, acutely aware of the leering attention she was receiving, of her sudden fame and of the sheer amount of disgrace and grief she felt.

She yanked her hand away from the Snatcher and he danced away with a mirthful laugh. She hugged herself tightly, awkwardly standing still in the crowd of criminals as they carried on with their festival. Similarly triumphant phrases and congratulatory remarks made their way to her ears and stuck like barbs. It was their doing, they said, that Voldemort had won, and what luck and fortune to have captured one of the greatest witches of her age, and how heroic of them to have aided the Dark Lord at such a crucial moment! Surely there would be great reward in store for them.

She trembled uncontrollably, the seconds stretched to hours, the minutes to years in her mind. The firelight danced upon her skin and she faced the flames directly, accepting the enormous heat that rolled from the charred logs and burned her skin. She was going to break down if she didn't get away now. She shook with the effort to not cry, but disobedient tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. No place to cry.

_Don't._

Scabior's silhouette blinked in and out of the flames. He was still watching her. She turned her focus to him- begging, pleading with him silently. For what she did not know, for what could he possibly give her? She looked away helplessly.

An eternity later, Scabior stood and raised his tankard to the immediately quieted crowd.

"'Ere's to a new reign!" he called out, "A new reign and more riches for us!" Buoyant cheers of "Here, here!" followed. He signaled for quiet, glass still raised. "Carry on all night if you want, boys, we've earned it! Me though," he slowed to a drawl, walking around the fire and encircling his arm around Hermione's tense body, "I'm going to take m' leave with this lovely tonight." Drunken whistles and cat calls had Scabior grinning as he led Hermione away from the crowd. They entered through the patch of woods to the campsite.

Hermione was surprised she had the will left to remember how to walk, and she staggered along beside Scabior, tripping over roots and catching her hair and clothes on branches. Her whole body felt stiff, the muscles tensed and knotted under her skin. If Hermione had thought her emotional range had reached capacity, she was wrong. She felt renewed tremors of fear and panic as she and Scabior approached one of the many tents. Surely he wasn't going to…he couldn't mean to…

A tiny burst of panicked energy bubbled up inside her and she pushed away from him. Surprised and more than a little intoxicated, Scabior lost his grip on her and stumbled. She made a mad dash for the tree line. But a Snatcher's reflexes are quick, the urge to hunt strong within them, and Scabior's hand snaked its way around her wrist before she made it to the woods. She let out a strangled cry.

Scabior drew her close to him, panting into her hair. He ran a hand through her matted tresses.

"Now what did I say about runnin' off?" he slurred at her. She was shaking again, terrified and completely exhausted once more. The terror of the present was overwhelming the grief of her past. He cupped her face gently with both hands. "Like I said, love," he told her, "You belong t' me now. So no more of that, yeah?" He pulled her gently but firmly back to the tent, opening the front flap for her.

"Well go on then," he told her when she made no move to go inside. Hermione shook her head no. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes; her heart beat like a rabbit's. Her mind, overwhelmed by emotion, was beyond words. She found it hard to breathe.

Scabior gave her wrist a firm, commanding tug, effectively pulling her resisting body into the tent. She stumbled inside and hugged herself about the waist tightly the moment he released her. It was the same tent she'd woken up in earlier, and she recognized the lavish furnishings with distaste. Her eyes flicked to the far right, to the bed in the corner, and she shivered, listening to her chattering teeth. She dared not move, and combined fatigue and fear chained her in place, reducing her to a muted agony.

_Don't think._

Hermione looked down and away, fixating her eyes on the design of the carpet beneath her. She could hear Scabior behind her muttering familiar protection and secrecy spells at the tent's entrance, and then chanting a few that even she did not know.

She visibly jumped with Scabior's hand slid around her waist, pulling her close to him. Hermione's face was pressed into his shoulder. She could smell the stale sweat and cologne that clung to his body, the cheap alcohol on his breath. She felt his wild hair brushing her nose, his unshaven cheek scratching her neck.

Without a second thought, Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck in an embrace. She looked into his surprised face for a memorable second and then brought her right knee up as hard as she could to his groin.

_Don't think._

His howl of pain was an inhuman sound, reverberating off the walls of the tent. Already regretting her rash move, Hermione ran to the tent entrance. Her fingers brushed along the seam of the cloth, but she got no further. What felt like an electrical shock ripped through her body, sending her tumbling backwards. She landed on her back, winded. She rolled breathlessly to her side, staggering to her feet. Her precious few seconds to escape were quickly running out. Her eyes searched desperately for another exit. Her head spun and she stumbled against the dining table, shaking off the effects of the curse. She gulped huge breaths of air.

"_Petrificus Totalus!_"

Hermione froze against the table, hands planted stiffly against the hard wood, arms and legs locked into place. She couldn't move a muscle. Terror poured down her back in an icy cold rain.

She heard light panting behind her and a soft growl. Then there was silence. What must have been no more than ten minutes was an absolute hellish eon to Hermione.

The ghost of breath suddenly upon her ear was her only warning that he was upon her again.

"You should'a played nice, kitten," Scabior hissed in her ear. He pressed himself up against her back. "I would'a been good t'you." He nipped her ear, hard, and a pained cry gurgled from Hermione's mouth as she felt blood ooze down her neck. Scabior laughed at her, licking up the blood he'd spilled.

He murmured behind her a banishment spell, and Hermione yelped at the sudden coolness of the air that hit her nude body. Her skin burned in new humiliation and fear. She couldn't even blink back the tears that gathered in her eyes, and they slithered in tiny rivulets down her face.

"Aww, now love, wha's this?" Scabior cooed, wiping her tears away with one long index finger. "Are you sorry for what you did to me, beau'iful? Or just embarrassed?" Hermione couldn't answer. Her eyes were glued to a spot on the table.

Scabior ran a hand over the nape of her neck, pushing her hair to the side, trailing his fingers down her side, resting finally at her hip. Goosebumps spread up Hermione's skin. "You ain't got nuffin' t'be embarrassed about, beau'iful," he whispered in her ear. He smacked her bum lightly, laughing as he watched her face blush a deeper shade of red and new tears fell to the tabletop. He hugged her from behind, pressing his still clothed body hard against hers.

"That wasn't very nice, tryin' to escape me, 'Ermione," he breathed into her ear. "Now I need to make sure you don't do it again, see pet?" He stepped away from her. It was only the sound of rustling clothes to Hermione, but in less than ten seconds the petrifying charm had been lifted, her hands had been bound by roughened black rope and she was being levitated across the length of the tent. She gasped out a sob as her suddenly limp body floated closer to the four-poster bed. Scabior deposited her on the cushion. The rope around her wrists extended magically before her, extending toward the wrought iron headboard and twisting into a tight knot around the black metal. The rope shortened then, dragging her body up the length of the mattress. Ropes from the footboard shot out and entwined around her ankles, pulling her legs spread-eagle and exposing her completely despite her valiant struggles.

Hermione let out a choked cry. "Please don't!" Her first words in over an hour, she tried to make them sound angry and demanding, but her voice broke and wavered. She was shaking again. Scabior was eyeing her body appreciatively.

"Please, please…" she whispered.

"I know, love," he assured her, "I didn't want our first time to be with you all strung up, either, but you've left me no choice. Besides…," and his eyes flicked up and down her body, "it's such a turn-on to see you like this."

Angry tears fell from Hermione's eyes. "Don't do this! Haven't I been through enough? Haven't I lost enough? _Please_…" she trailed off. It was hopeless. Scabior was removing his jacket slowly. She couldn't stop crying, begging him to stop until he laid a finger firmly over her lips.

"Shh now, pet. Any more of that and I'll have to gag you. You don't want that now, do you love?"

Hermione gave a hesitant shake of her head, biting her lip hard to try and reign in her tears. She couldn't bear the thought of losing any more control than she already had.

"Good," Scabior breathed into her ear.

Hermione's chest heaved in shaky sobs and she tried not to make sound, her will to fight all but destroyed. He took off his shoes and bent to remove his black boots. Hermione could see pockmarked scars all up his arms and torso, victory marks from his life as a Snatcher.

He was undoing his belt buckle now, and Hermione saw the bulge from beneath his plaid pants. She was afraid to watch, but she was terrified to close her eyes. Scabior shoved the waistband down past his hips, and suddenly he was as naked as she.

Hermione could feel her throat closing from the effort of holding back tears, her heart thumping loudly in her chest and her breaths coming in short pants. Scabior knelt on the mattress and leaned over her, his weight depressing the bed. His eyes peered at her tear-streaked face. His hands he planted on either side of her shoulders. She could feel his hardened penis brush up against her thigh and she shuddered. He dipped his head down to hers and kissed her forehead lightly. Hermione moaned in emotional agony, biting her lip hard; he kissed her tears away in response, licking down to her bloodied earlobe and traveling further down to suck on her neck.

Ignoring her silent pleas, he continued his path down her body. The stubble on his chin scratched her skin lightly. He kissed down the valley between her breasts to her navel, where he swirled his tongue hungrily, eliciting a jump from Hermione. He grinned against her stomach and came back up, catching her right breast in his mouth and sucking hard. Hermione trembled against the waves of dread she felt, watching as Scabior cleared enjoyed himself with her body.

He swirled his tongue lightly around her right breast again, before using his teeth to pull her nipple upwards. He bit down before he released her flesh, making her suck in air sharply.

Scabior started repeating his attentions to her left breast. He slid his left hand under her back between her shoulder blades. His right hand he ran slowly down her side, over the curvature of her buttocks and stopping at the top of her thigh. He pushed her leg away and upwards slightly. His fingers danced along her inner thigh, halting just above her sex. She jerked when the tips of his fingers brushed against her ever so lightly. She felt him smile into her skin again, and began to massage her softly. He started in slow circles, and if Hermione had been in bed with Ron she would have been lost to the pleasure of the touch. Now, though, she quivered in desolation and anger.

Scabior breathed in her ear, "Your body wants this, wants me." His fingers pressed directly on her clit and Hermione yelped at the sensation, sparks of pleasure curling up sickeningly to her stomach. "Women are only meant for fucking," he told her in egotistical victory as he elicited another whimper from her.

"No…" she whispered inaudibly, tears falling freely. But she couldn't stop the physical pleasure he was forcing from her body. He refused to let up his fingering, tracing patterns against her over-sensitive flesh. She tried to ignore it, tried to force down the bubble of pleasure that was about to burst inside her. But she couldn't hold it back. She gasped, and as if on cue, Scabior shoved two fingers up into her as her inner walls spasmed erratically. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Scabior continued to finger her throughout her orgasm, thrusting in and out of her faster. He had added a third finger by the time she had come down from her small high. She panted beneath him, crying silently.

"Good girl," he praised her, and she shuddered, revolted. Scabior removed his fingers from her core and brought them to his lips. He sucked off her juices from each finger, and Hermione looked away.

Scabior abandoned her sex then, using both hands to heft her thighs up until her feet rested flat against the mattress. The ropes around her ankles seemed to obey him, and loosened and tightened accordingly as he maneuvered her. He bent down and kissed her inner thigh before giving her a long lick with his tongue, enjoying her sharp intake of breath.

"I'm going to fill up that pretty pussy now, beau'iful," he told her. He kissed her just below her navel before straightening his back. Hermione watched helplessly as steadied himself on his left hand, using his right to position his cock at her entrance. Hermione bit her tongue hard when she felt the tip of his penis prod her. She tightened every muscle in her body, denying him entrance the only way she could.

Scabior flashed her an awful smile and then pinched her clit hard between his fingernails. Hermione cried out in pain.

"Stop tryin' to resist me, pet," he said breathily, voice brooking no disobedience. He watched as she took a minute to breathe deeply through her nose, fighting to relax.

"Good girl," he praised her for the second time that night. He repositioned himself again. Hermione stared determinedly at a spot above his shoulder, looking past him at the tent wall. She tried to stifle a groan as he pushed up into her. She was by no means a virgin, but it still hurt. It hurt worse than her first time as he pressed into her body, tearing into her psyche. New tears blurred her view of the wall, but she refused to look at what was happening to her. Her chest heaved in broken, silent sobs.

Above her, Scabior gave a satisfied hiss as he sheathed himself completely within her. Hermione's inner muscles contracted involuntarily and he moaned in undisguised pleasure.

"That's right, 'Ermione," he murmured, "You feel so good, beau'iful." He pulled his hips back, and Hermione shivered at the feel of him sliding out of her. He thrust back into her and she gasped at the force of it. He pressed on, plunging in and out, gathering speed. He panted above her and Hermione breathed in the smell of alcohol. He rotated his hips in a gyrating circular motion, whirling inside of her. Hermione groaned as she was stretched painfully.

He moved one of his hands back down to her sex, toying with her abused clit. His thrusts were becoming erratic, and he drove in and out of her harder, shoving her body up the mattress. With one final, deep plunge, his eyes rolled up into his head and Hermione felt semen shoot in hot spurts into her body.

Hermione held her breath as he collapsed above her, barely supporting his weight on his elbows. He rolled to the side, pulling out of her with a wet noise. Unable to move, Hermione lay where she was, chin trembling with the effort to stop her tears. Her chest moved jerkily up and down, caught in suppressed sobs.

She felt Scabior press a final kiss into the junction between her neck and shoulder.

"Thanks for that, beau'iful," he murmured softly. Hermione cringed away from him, closing her eyes. He turned from her then, and rose from the bed. She felt the rough scraping sensation of being _Scourgified_ and twitched uncomfortably in response. Scabior was speaking to her again.

"I've got to take care of somethin', pet," he told her, "I'm not going to untie you, so you just sit tight an' I'll be back soon." He tousled her hair playfully and she bit back a whimper. She heard movement across the tent's floor and the flap of the entrance closing behind him.

As soon as she was sure he was gone, Hermione broke into uncontrollable tears. She took long, shuddering sobs, hyperventilating in her effort to breathe. Her entire body shook with grief, with pain, with despair. She was pure emotion; there was no single even she could possibly fixate on.

Tied as she was, she couldn't even so much as hug herself in comfort. She pulled her legs and arms as hard as she could against the rope, badly chafing herself in the process. She turned her head into her shoulder and the pillow beneath her, letting her tears soak into the cloth. She cried for herself, for Ron and for Harry. She cried for the lives she'd lost, the futures she'd destroyed. She cried until her head pounded with blood and her throat burned.

_Please, please stop thinking._

She had never felt so close to death as she did in that moment. She cried herself into exhaustion, and eventually, into fitful sleep.

* * *

><p>Thank you very much for reading.<p> 


	3. Adjustment

Hermione woke up from a fitful sleep to Scabior snapping her wand in half. She didn't even know he'd had it.

"Not gonna need this now, love," he reassured her as his boot crunched the vine remnants. He leaned down to kiss her, and she slapped him. He hit back harder, and she clutched her hand to her stinging face, head spinning. She could feel blood on her face, viscous and hot.

"I've got to take a piss," he said airily, "Stay here and be good, yeah?"

"You're a monster," she seethed under her breath. Luckily Scabior didn't hear-he had already nonchalantly walked out of the tent, leaving her alone.

Hermione tried not to feel sentimental about the wand. In all honesty she couldn't begin to process all the wrong things that had happened to her. She kicked the pieces of wood under the bed so she couldn't see.

Slowly, she traced her raw and bleeding wrists where the ropes had bitten into her skin. Some of the blisters had already broken and were oozing clear pus. In a trance, her eyes traveled up her arms and down her naked torso, taking in the bruises and scrapes that marred her body. Her eyes purposely skimmed over her sex, moving down her legs to her ankles, where she found matching bright red rope marks.

She winced as she tried to sit up; she was sore, and not just…down there. Everywhere, she felt like she had been rolled out and kneaded like bread dough. She crossed an arm over her stomach protectively, staring blankly across the length of the tent.

She should try to escape. That's what a good hostage would do. But she couldn't find the strength, the motivation, to try. It was like her brain was in slow-motion, refusing to compute the magnitude of her situation. She ran a hand through her matted hair; she must look terrible. Good.

Quickly rising, she dressed and walked to the other side of the tent, facing away from the bed. She stared very hard at one of the tapestries, thinking.

Focus, she breathed to herself. Focus, hold it together.

She ached between her legs. She screwed her eyes shut tight.

Focus, focus. Don't think of anything. Breathe. Focus.

Her face pulsed with pain. Bruises were already forming, though the blood had dried by now. Her fingernail dug little crescents into her upper arms.

Breathe. Shhhh. _Shhhh_. Focus. Breathe.

Her heart, her heart hurt most of all, a perpetual knife twisting around in her chest, right down into her belly. Hermione's knees buckled.

She grabbed at the tapestry as she fell to the ground, ripping it in half. Her knees banging into the solid earth jolted her back to the present. She buried her face in the torn tapestry, inhaling deeply. It held a musty, foreign scent. Nothing familiar was here. She was totally alone.

"You're lucky I didn't much like that tapestry, pet."

Well, not totally alone, it seemed. Scabior was back already.

Hermione gripped the cloth tightly in her hands.

"I hate you," she breathed into the fabric.

"What was that, pet?" Scabior's voice was dangerously playful. Hermione turned around to face him fully. Beneath the new bruises, her face was flushed with anger. She could feel her heart pounding, her utter repulsion of him oozing out of her.

"I hate you!" she shouted furiously, giving into her rage. She wanted to advance towards this piece of slime, to hit him harder than she'd ever thought to hit Malfoy in third year. She wanted to strangle him in a blind rage and scream at him for what he'd done to her. What they'd done to her friends.

But one movement-one _simple _movement, she later thought bitterly-unfolding his arms and lightly touching his wand, was all it took for Scabior to remind her that she was powerless against him. She stayed rooted to the spot, her lividness battling for supremacy over her fear and losing.

Hermione broke eye contact first.

"I think you'd best watch yourself, pet, and mind that wicked tongue of yours. Traveling with this lot of Snatchers...well, you might just learn to stay on my good side." Hermione shivered involuntarily, and he stalked away.

The next three solid weeks were the most painful of Hermione's life. If she had thought camping out with Harry and Ron was bad, camping sans magic was even more terrible by a hundredfold. Camping with dangerous bandits worsened her situation exponentially.

Her first escape attempt failed miserably, and Hermione was tied and gagged for a week straight after. Scabior removed the gag twice a day so she could eat and drink, and then tied it tightly around her head again, twisting hair into the knots. None of it was necessary; it was punishment. Her wrists were in front of her, and the skin under the ropes chafed and bled by the end of the second day. The gag tasted of stale sweat and dirt at first, but reflexive salivation and swallowing made the cloth tasteless after a time. The cloth pressed against her tongue and the corners of her mouth, chapping the sensitive skin around it.

Scabior was right, staying off of his bad side was paramount to her survival. She refused let herself appreciate that, at first. After the first time, she tried to escape twice more. She resisted his every touch, his every command of her. She dragged her feet when they hiked through treacherous weather and terrain. She sabotaged hunting traps. That first earned her black eyes, some bruised ribs...and then a sprained wrist, a painfully empty stomach, and a humiliating public whipping in front of the jeering band of Snatchers. Scabior definitely preferred physical to magical torture, and took satisfaction with the slow healing process of her wounds.

Always, always, her efforts earned her painful nights in bed, and more than once she was left bloody and bruised when he was finished. She'd distanced herself enough from the experience though that she never felt pleasure from it again. She'd never let that happen again, she vowed.

It was on the twentieth night, as Scabior thrust forcefully into her, that he promised that he would let his Snatchers have her body if she continued her fight. Fenrir Greyback was particularly keeping an eye out, he'd noticed. He whispered to her that he'd be willing to share, that it would be a turn on for him. She just had to push him. One. More. Time.

As he ejaculated into her with a last, erratic thrust, Hermione knew he had won. She was scared of Scabior, yes, and loathed him with every fiber of her being, but she was petrified of his ragged troop of Snatchers, Fenrir Greyback especially. The vicious werewolf was downright terrifying. And so far Scabior had lived up to his promises.

So on the morning of her twenty-first day in captivity, Hermione stopped fighting. She still cursed his name to his face, and assured him daily of her hatred for him, but she stopped her outright rebellion. Her obedience came with the price of pride and injustice, but it granted her certain "privileges." For one, sex was gentler. Not at all less frequent, but not nearly as rough, since he wasn't trying to prove his point to her anymore. He knew he had her, now. Her body ceased to be mostly purple and black, and Scabior healed her wrist magically as a sort of sick reward. She was fed. Most of all though, Scabior kept his promise; not a Snatcher so much as brushed against her in passing. Not even Fenrir-especially not Fenrir.

So long as she was obedient.

If Hermione didn't think about what was happening to her, she was okay. She could breathe without hyperventilating. She could obey. She could survive.

Now, however, as she finished her stew dinner-rabbit and wild onion-she could feel herself losing control. It was the thirty-ninth day. An eternity since her capture, she thought. She sat in front of a fire, the same as every night. The warm flames bathed her skin, and she was instinctively relaxing. She had been travelling with the Snatchers long enough to know their routine, and now was a safe time to let her guard down. She was achy today, not just her legs from walking but her whole body. She sighed as she tried to get comfortable. Scabior was next to her, resting languidly against a tree stump, his legs akimbo and arms resting on top of his knees.

Hermione half-listened to his conversations with the other men. It was idle chatter, truly. Nothing of intellectual value, and she grew bored. She, for her part, was largely ignored during this time of the night. The sun was well set beyond the horizon, and if it not were for the fire it would be chilly outside. Hermione was reminded of camping with her parents, and of toasting marshmallows to golden perfection. Wisps of loving hugs and snuggly sleeping bags crept into her mind. Her throat caught unexpectedly, and her eyes stung with unshed tears. She must have been staring too long into the fire, she thought, rubbing her eyelids with a fist. The smoke must be getting to her.

It was just the smoke.

She picked up a stone that was close to the fire. It was jagged, not at all smooth, and hot. So hot it burned her skin, and she clenched it between both hands until she nearly screamed, until the pain in her hands made her forget all about the smoke that had irritated her eyes.

Abruptly, she dropped the stone and stood. Scabior's eyes flicked to hers. He still didn't trust her, despite all he'd done to keep her.

"I am going to bed," she clarified loudly.

"See you there, love," he replied with a nod, blowing her a kiss with a grin. Hermione spat in disgust into the fire, making him laugh. She turned away and left before she did something to get herself in trouble.

She could feel his eyes on her all the way back to the tent, and rubbed her skin consciously where her newest scar had been forged, her third night here. It had been the crudest form of blood magic Hermione had ever encountered, and the resulting skin had been carved with exquisite detail to create a stag's head, antlers and all, on her forearm. The carving matched the stag on the ring that Scabior wore. It had been an incredibly painful two hours, Scabior chanting an elaborated version of a tracking charm the entire while.

The whole process had been a nightmare for Hermione. She relived Bellatrix's torture at Malfoy Manor, and relived those worst moments of her life over and again. Scabior had had to cast a _Silencio _charm on her petrified body while he worked, but Hermione had been so far gone she didn't realize until later that he had done it. She'd cried hoarsely for hours afterwards, cradling her burning arm.

Now, as she held out her arms in front of her, she compared her scars. A terribly beautiful stag on her left, and the angrily scrawled _Mudblood_ on her right. The white scar tissue was puckered up and stood out starkly against her skin. Her finger lightly traced one of the antlers, and she shivered. Her burnt hands were dark red with blood, and a blister was forming on one of them. Tiny indents showed in her palms from where the sharp rock had bitten into her skin.

She lay motionless and unsleeping in the dark tent when Scabior finally retired for the night. This was the time she dreaded most, these moments just before he climbed on top of her. As soon as he started pushing in and out of her it was merely a countdown until the end, until he finished.

"You could learn to enjoy it, you know," he told her afterwards, rolling a nipple between his fingers. His breath was hot and rancid with beer against her skin. His eyes were half-lidded; he would be asleep soon.

"No. No, I couldn't," Hermione whispered in as flat a voice as she could manage. She rolled to her side, facing away from him, but didn't move when he draped his arm around her waist. True to form, he was asleep within minutes, and didn't see the tears that dripped down her face and seeped into the pillows.

* * *

><p>Hi. I'm back and ready for action! Let's do this.<p>

~E-A


	4. Sleuth

Hermione hadn't been eating right for days. She could hardly keep down broth sometimes, and then she would get great pangs of hunger in the middle of the night. Once she had actually woken Scabior, whose head had been resting on her tummy, with her growling stomach. He'd been irritable and grouchy, but rummaged around until he found dried food for her. She paid for the disturbance with thirteen minutes of unwanted sex, but Scabior at least thought it was a fair trade.

She'd decided that she had caught some terrible bug out here in the middle of nowhere. It was probably lethal, she thought miserably as she bent over a bush to dry-heave. She wasn't sure if Scabior realized that she was sick; she tried her best to hide it, refusing to show that she was weakening. He didn't acknowledge it, at any rate.

She found some peppermint growing wild one day and robbed the bush of every leaf. She chewed them raw during the day and steeped them in hot water at night. It helped, a little. It also prevented Scabior from detecting the stomach acid on her breath.

She was exhausted and wished they would stop moving every day. She wanted to sleep someplace that didn't involve a tent, wanted to bathe in something that wasn't a stream.

_You want too many things Hermione_, she scolded when she caught herself wishing for more.

Fireside conversation that night was more heated than usual. The Death Eaters were waging war against the Muggles, and had already taken over London. The casualty rate was high, according to Fenrir, on the Muggles' part. Hermione shivered, trying not to picture their painful and probably gruesome deaths. Those poor people, Hermione thought. Completely defenseless against magic. She felt hatred flow through her, and her stomach rolled violently. She pushed her bowl of food to the ground, its contents spilling onto the dirt. The Snatchers all noticed, but she couldn't prevent the waves of nausea and bile buildup in her throat, and she threw up right there.

She stood with her ears still rushing with blood, her eyes pricked with forced tears. Ignoring the Snatchers and their juvenile taunts, she kicked dirt over the vomit, spat out the remaining bile from her mouth, and walked away. The cold in absence of the fire made Hermione's skin chilly and her hair stick up straight on her arms, but it numbed her mind and eased her nausea. She stuffed a few peppermint leaves into her mouth and chewed them. They were bitter and harsh, which further distracted her.

She wound her way aimlessly through camp. Her obedience as of late had granted her this freedom, and she was nearly certain that no Snatcher would approach her. They seemed exceptionally bent on ignoring her, which she imagined was Scabior's doing.

She walked until her arms were clammy with cold condensation and her eyelids were drooping closed. She was truly exhausted, totally drained. She was losing weight, and fast, she thought. Her short-sleeved tee was baggier than it had been, and her arms felt scrawny. Her legs, on the other hand, were getting bulky with muscle from the Snatchers' constant travel through weird terrains. Hermione didn't quite know why they traveled the Muggle way so much-she suspected that half the reason had to do with a love for the outdoors, and the other half probably made it easier to track runaways.

The runaways were something Hermione didn't like to think about, so she didn't.

But if she did, she would acknowledge that whenever she wandered about she would avoid the camp tent that held prisoners. She would realize that she hated that she could smell the scent of other girls on Scabior some nights when he came to bed-whether he was fucking them or just carrying them she didn't know. She would imagine that whatever happened to them after their capture was ten times worse than her imprisonment. And she would know that there was absolutely nothing she could do to help them.

Which is why Hermione preferred to ignore the screaming conscience in her mind, devoting herself to mental and physical survival. It wasn't easier, per se, but it was a bearable existence, which was the most she dared hope for.

Hermione's feet stopped abruptly outside of Scabior's tent. She didn't want to enter, but she desperately wanted to sleep, close to tears with fatigue now. With an arm that felt like lead, she pushed aside the cloth and entered.

Scabior was there already, whittling a dead tree branch with a knife. Hermione hated when he did that. For one, the action looked menacing. Plus, it got wood chips all over the floor and the bed, making sex and sleep unnecessarily more uncomfortable. But most of all, it reminded Hermione of her scar, how intricate it was. She often wondered if he had practiced on sticks before whittling the flesh on her arm.

"Was our dinner talk too much for you, love?" Scabior asked lightly. He stopped whittling to look up at her. Hermione scoffed at him.

"I hardly think the mere _mention _of death is enough to make me vomit," she lied, "Not when I've been so close to it for so long." She stared at him pointedly, mouth in a hard line. "Something I ate just didn't agree with me."

She took off her boots and shorts and sat on the bed. Scabior motioned for her to come sit with him instead on the couch, but she ignored him, kicking her heels nonchalantly against the bed frame and inwardly straining to keep herself propped upright. She could feel her arms shake with the effort.

_Show no weakness_, she thought, just as her stomach rolled. She pressed her lips together thinly.

Scabior stood, brushing pine chips onto the floor. She could tell by the smell, which was incredibly pungent.

"So long as you're alright, love," hedged Scabior, "You know how much I care about your well-being."

_Not a lick,_ thought Hermione, but she didn't say anything, watching him. Scabior removed her scarf from around his neck, and then his boots and jacket. He climbed into bed with her-he rarely ever fully undressed, if he could help it. Never knew when the camp would have to move out in a rush, she supposed.

He pulled her body to his, pressing her back against his chest. Ignoring her stiffened muscles, he ran his fingers along her shoulders. She could feel the calluses built up on his hands as they moved to her neck and up to her scalp. He ran his fingers through the short tresses of hair-he had shaved Hermione's head last week, to prevent fleas and lice, he'd said. _Fucking hypocrite_. His hair he still wore back in a messy low ponytail. He'd cut it off because he thought he was _funny_. Hermione remembered that glint in his eye when he picked up her severed locks, bringing it to his face and inhaling deeply. Disgusting. Her hair was short now, like a boy's, trimmed close to her head. Hermione hated it, and that made her hate Scabior even more.

His fingers massaged her scalp, twisting and pulling at the short bits of her hair. The feeling was so slow and...nice, and...not _painful_, that Hermione was lulled to sleep in minutes. There was not even the merest hint of sex tonight.

This time, Scabior was awake to see the tears dry on her face.

* * *

><p>The next day as Hermione trudged alongside the Snatchers, she couldn't help but overhear their gossip. Voldemort was starting a mission to wipe out the Muggle families that had spawned the Mudbloods, for fear that they would create more. He was starting with the most powerful Mudbloods on record, bent on eradicating the worst of his potential threats.<p>

And some Brits living in Australia were at the very top of the list.

Hermione's heart stopped.

As if realizing she was just there, one of the Snatchers shot her a look, curiosity and dark mirth etched across his face. It was Fenrir. He leered at her, pointed teeth showing, and she felt her vision narrowing. It blacked out everything around her until all she could see was that horrible face and all she could hear was her rapid breathing roaring in her ears. And then she fainted.

She could not have been out long, for the sun had not changed position by the time her eyes opened. The gossiping Snatchers were gone though. In fact everyone was gone, except for Scabior who was sitting against a tree next to her, whittling. He watched her, his face expressionless, as she sat up. She hugged her knees to her chest.

"Is...is it true?" Her broken voice betrayed her desperation and grief. Scabior gave a short nod. Hermione touched her forehead to her knees, rocking back and forth slowly. After everything she'd done, everything she'd sacrificed to protect them...she coughed out a sob.

"You have to help them," her head jerked up, and her shining eyes looking towards him. "Please," she begged, "Please, you have to help them!" Scabior met her gaze evenly.

"I can't do that, love."

Hermione felt her blood boil, anger and panic building up inside her.

"Why! Why can't you? They're my pa... my parents!" she choked. Her hands fisted the cool dirt beneath her. She felt dizzy. "Please, please let _me_ go to them, if you won't!"

"No."

Hermione screamed her anger. She stood, and he followed suit. She charged at him, shaking with emotion.

"I hate you! I fucking hate you!" She beat against his chest with her small hands. Tears streamed down her face, which burned red and blotchy.

"You can't let them die. You can't," she sobbed. Scabior caught her wrists in one hand, eying her coolly. He wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her to him. She struggled until she was exhausted, and then leaned into him, shaking and crying and hating him with all her heart.

"Not after everything I've done. I can't let them die. Please. _Please_, I can't."

Scabior smoothed her hair with one hand, and she cringed at his touch.

"It'd be treason to try, love," he murmured, "We'd be killed for it. And I've had enough of a time keeping you alive as it is."

"Good," Hermione whispered, "Why don't you just kill me? Why haven't you _killed _me yet?" Her fists tightened, white showing on her knuckles. The desperation in her voice was unmistakable.

There was silence for the briefest of moments, and Hermione felt his grip relax.

"Because I want to keep you around," he replied easily. As if it were so simple.

Hermione's anger flared again. She pushed away from him, hard.

"You're sick," she spat at him, revulsion pouring off of her. "I'm not your _entertainment_."

Scabior laughed at her. _Laughed_.

"Of course you are, pet."

Hermione turned and ran.

She didn't know what direction she was running, or where she was going. She didn't care. She ran on anger, and she ran on grief. She ran on denial and hatred and desolation. Her lungs burned for oxygen and her legs ached for relief, but she ran on.

Scabior wasn't following her. She wasn't expecting him to-he could always find her later. When she finally collapsed against a tree she wept uncontrollably, keening against the harsh bark of a maple.

Her fingernails dug painfully into her forearm, tearing at the scar of the stag. Tiny red marks flared up as she clawed at the skin, willing the tracker charm to be destroyed, willing the pain to push her emotions away.

Hours later when Scabior showed up, smelling of pine and dirt and blood, Hermione was nearly comatose. She couldn't feel anything anymore. Her eyes were unfocused and her body was limp. Scabior healed her bloodied arm without a word, the stag immaculately still carved into her skin. He picked her up and Apparated away.

She threw up upon landing, and didn't bother to hide it from Scabior. What was the point? If he wanted her, well then, he had her now.

They were back at camp. Scabior dragged her to the tent, _Scourgified _her whole body thoroughly and roughly, and laid her down in bed. He didn't force her to have sex with him, though. For the second night in a row. Hermione's tears soaked through the pillow beneath her head, and she let him hold her in silence until he drifted off to sleep. Hermione didn't sleep though. She couldn't.

* * *

><p>Thoughts?<p>

~E-A


	5. Schooled

The _Daily Prophet _confirmed it two days later, on her forty-eighth day of captivity. "Golden Trio Families Destroyed: The Dark Lord Conquers." There were two pictures in the article. One of the Dursleys. One of Hermione's parents. They could have been Muggle pictures, but of course, dead bodies don't move so it was hard to tell. Hermione crumpled the paper in her hands. She could hardly breathe. She was acutely aware of Scabior's watchful stare, the thudding aches in her back and her head. Every sensation was magnified.

But none of that held a candle to the vast emptiness she felt in the pit of her stomach, and emptiness that pervaded her mind, destroying all sense of time and obscuring her awareness of her surroundings.

For the next eight days Hermione was totally unreachable. She became lost inside of herself. Scabior kept her hidden inside his tent, making temporary camp for the Snatchers. She ate nothing, drank nothing, unless Scabior forced it down her throat. She didn't speak, she didn't fight, she didn't run. She was unresponsive to anything and everything around her.

Had Hermione been at all aware of her surroundings, she might have noticed Scabior's displeasure with her, a disgust that concealed his worry. She might have noticed him shouting at her, slapping her face, might have felt the sting of his words or bruises that rose from the blows. She might have been aware of how he claimed her body twice on the fourth day and again on the fifth, quick and harsh each time. Trying to awaken her.

By the sixth day Scabior realized she wouldn't respond to pain. Hermione might have noticed how he patiently restrained his temper each day after that, helping her feed herself. She might have noticed that he was quick to _Scourgify _whatever she vomited back up, which was most of what she ate. She might have noticed the look of regret on his face when his thumb brushed her swollen cheek, the flash of concern in his eyes when he kissed her unresponsive lips. But she didn't. On the outside, Hermione was an empty shell.

Inside Hermione's mind was a different scenario. Inside her mind, she desperately tried to escape the unending onslaught of repressed memories. Her parents' death had tipped the scale of her ability to control her thoughts, and now she was paying the price. Those eight days for Hermione were a living nightmare, a constant whirlwind of emotional pain. There was no physical escape and she didn't know how to mentally escape the terrors anymore either. She couldn't let go of those memories-no, they wouldn't let go of _her_.

They played in a loop, embedding a constant mantra in her head:

_I'm going to have a conversation with this one...girl to girl..._

_No! Let me go! Ron, no..._

_You're mine now..._

_Don't think, Hermione. Don't..._

_You shoulda played nice, kitten..._

_Please, please..._

_Good girl..._

_You could learn to enjoy it, you know..._

_Please, you have to help them! Please..._

_I'm not your entertainment..._

_Of course you are..._

She fought against them as hard as she could, desperately trying to clear her mind once again, trying to evict those memories. But she couldn't. So on the eighth day, exhausted and broken, her mind gave up fighting. She let the memories tear completely and openly at her mind until she felt shattered a million pieces. Inside her mind, she cried and screamed freely. Inside her mind, she grieved.

And when she felt that she was so tattered and shredded that she couldn't bear to live any longer, she woke up.

She blinked confusedly when she opened her eyes, not quite registering where she was. Her nightmares were gone, but had been replaced by harsh reality.

A bed. A tent. The smell of used linen and dirt and pine. She was clutching a newspaper clipping, her hands cramped from gripping it so tightly for so long.

All too quickly, the reality registered, hitting her like a stunner curse. Her breathing shortened, resonating in her ears. Her heart beat fast. Her head spun. She gripped herself around the knees and rocked back and forth, finally experiencing physically what she had been suffering through mentally those past eight days. She trembled on the bed, fingernails digging into her upper arms.

It was ages until her panic passed and she was calm enough to cry. It felt like a dam had been broken, holding back a week of tears, and she let herself grieve. Her body shook with uncontrollable energy, and she pressed herself up against the bedpost. She didn't know how long she cried, and she didn't care. Her sobs she muffled in the edge of the bedspread, pressing her hot forehead into the blanket's coolness. She bit down hard on the cloth, nearly choking in the process.

A noise alerted her to the tent flap opening, and she leapt from the bed, terrified. She crouched down on the ground, wide-eyed and her heart pounding. Her gaze was met with an equally surprised Scabior, who stood still for a full minute and stared at her. She felt her chest tighten as it moved up and down erratically, recuperating from her cry. She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands, her eyes not leaving his form.

Scabior was crossing the floor now, approaching her. She shook as he squatted down in front of her, looking her over. Finally, he spoke.

"There now, I told Fenrir you wasn't a vegetable."

He grinned at her, which she wouldn't reciprocate even if she could. He reached his hand up to the side of her head, and she jerked back distrustfully, nearly banging her head on a table. She felt nothing but hatred and fear for the wizard before her. He withdrew, showing her his palms in a sign of peace.

"Easy, love," he told her lightly, watching her closely.

Her glare was enough to make him laugh at her though, and he tousled her hair, this time ignoring how she flinched and pulled away. He rose from his squatting position, and it did not go unnoticed by him that she tensed as he towered over her. He stepped back and away nonchalantly.

"I'll get you some food then, pet, and mind you keep it down this time."

When he'd gone, she gently massaged her jaw with her fingertips. She stood up from her crouch and sat precariously on the edge of the bed. She rolled her neck in circles, shrugged her shoulders, twisted her torso. It felt like she hadn't moved in ages. She extended her legs out in front of her and bent over them. The stretchy painfulness felt good, not something she could say for most of her body. Her head thudded with an intense migraine, making her lightheaded. Her lower back ached. She was starving and nauseous all at once. She was exhausted.

The newspaper clipping that she had been holding was face-down on the bed. She knew what it was. She wasn't willing to look at it again, but she wasn't ready to throw it away either. Instead, she carefully picked it up without looking at it and folded it precisely with her fingers. She wedged it deftly into a crack of the dresser beside the bed.

Just as she'd finished and sat down again, Scabior returned with a bowl of stew, startling her all over again. She forced calming breaths through her nose, finding it much easier to regain composure than she thought it would be. In a matter of moments her heart was calm, her mind clear, and Scabior was setting food in front of her.

He had to yell at her to stop her from inhaling the food all in a minute; she was famished. When she'd finished, she set the bowl to the side and closed her eyes, leaning her head against the baseboard of the bed with a soft _thud_. She was still hungry, but she wasn't about to tell Scabior that-she had yet to tell Scabior _anything_, for that matter. Her eyelids felt too heavy to open again anyway. She rolled to her side and was asleep within moments, ignoring her captor completely.

It took three days for Scabior to figure it out, but despite his incessant prodding and pressing, by the end of the third day he had to admit defeat. Hermione, whether from trauma or by her own volition, was for all intents and purposes, mute.

He'd tried first with questions, with conversation meant to provoke her. Then he'd tried threats and shouting, but nothing brought out her voice. He tried to get some reaction from her by being violently physical, to no avail. She didn't cry when he had sex with her anymore, and she did not fight him. It was as if a fire had gone out in her, and all that remained were the distant embers of feelings that were long forgotten. Hermione may have returned to the real world, but she was a far cry from who she had been.

For Hermione, the days following her awakening blurred together. She ate, she slept, she walked when she was told to walk, she fucked when she was told to fuck. She never spoke of her headaches, but she ceased hiding the nausea and dizziness that still plagued her. She didn't how she could possibly still have a stomach bug, and she assumed it was her body's way of purging herself of emotions she'd been suppressing for so long.

Silence to Hermione was her last line of defense. Death Eaters had taken everything from her-her school, her friends, her parents, her body. Her freedom. Her life. There was nothing they hadn't taken from her, but she could choose to keep her voice. And that power planted a feeble seed of strength in her mind. It was _her_ choice, _her_ power, _her_s. And there was nothing Scabior could do about it. So yes, she would play her part as the submissive little captive, but knowing she had something-even something as insignificant as her voice-that couldn't be forced from her...well, that ignited something deep within her.

With all her free time, she learned mentally how to survive. She learned how to clear her mind and not think of anything as she hiked mindlessly through the forests each day. She meditated when she woke up and again after dinner, before sex. She learned that she could relax into Scabior's touch, dissociating her mind from her body when they had sex. As he lustfully pumped himself in and out of her, she was just a spectator. He liked to dominate, that was for certain, she saw. He got hard quicker when her hands or feet were tied, and his thrusts turned painfully erratic and quick when he slapped or bit her. He whispered lewd promises in her ear, and praised her after he was spent. She made careful, distanced note of these discoveries and used it to her advantage to make sex shorter and put Scabior asleep faster.

She had never been one for meditation, but that was the old Hermione, who needed constant mental challenges, who craved learning and loathed laziness. The Hermione now needed refuge and release, and this was how she got it. She accepted each feeling of remorse and grief and hate that flitted through her mind instead of ignoring them, whittling her emotions down until she zeroed in on her breathing and her constant, steady heartbeat.

* * *

><p>Sixteen days after waking up, Scabior received a summons. A barn owl delivered the parchment over breakfast, disturbing her meditation. Hermione absently petted the bird as Scabior read the missive. It wasn't the typical shade of parchment that usually gave instructions for their next assignments, she noticed. She watched as Scabior's face darkened, and her hand stilled on the owl's head when he directed his gaze towards her.<p>

_Now what_? She watched warily as he stalked over to h1er.

"We're leaving," he said shortly. Hermione shrugged and turned to the tent to get her travel pack. Scabior grabbed her upper arm, stopping her.

"No," he reproved her shortly. Her eyes held the question to which he answered, "Not the whole camp. Just you and me. To Hogwarts." No stupid endearments, no sarcasm, just a gruff explanation that explained nothing at all.

Hermione's brow creased in confusion and worry. Why would the two of them go to Hogwarts? She easily concluded that Snape must have sent the summons, as headmaster, but that only aggravated her concern. Whatever they were getting into, it wasn't going to turn out well for her. Nothing ever did, for the Mudbloods.

Scabior's grip on her arm tightened and he gave her a meaningful look. Hermione swallowed and braced herself, and then they were Apparating. They landed heavily and she staggered on her feet, grateful for his vice-grip on her arm. She fought the urge to vomit unsuccessfully, the products of which Scabior banished instantly and without comment. She spat onto the ground several times to get the taste out of her mouth, and then straightened, giving Scabior the okay to go on.

Outside Hogsmeade, they made the fifteen minute trek through the town. Weirdly to Hermione, the shops were still open, people still passed through the streets. Business and pleasure were both pursued here. It felt wrong, like the whole world should have stopped just because hers had been ripped apart. She tried to focus on the ground in front of her instead, a knot of longing and anger building in her stomach. She concentrated on her breathing, glad she had been meditating just before they left.

When Hogwarts came into view though, Hermione had to forcibly stop herself from panicking. She pushed air in and out of her lungs in slow, deliberate breaths. She took mechanical, short steps forwards—left, right, left, right. She closed her eyes as they passed the Whomping Willow.

Inside the castle it was harder. It was suppertime, she could guess, because she could hear the noise of students eating in the Great Hall, could smell the delicious food prepared by the house elves. It was so wrong, she thought bitterly. _She _should be eating in there, _she _should be enjoying her time with friends, _she _should be living like a seventeen year-old should be. But she wasn't. Scabior's fingers digging into her arm were a painful reminder of that.

She held her breath as they passed the library, so she wouldn't breathe in the smell of books. That room in particular held too many memories. By the time they reached the Gargoyle statue of the Headmaster's office, Hermione could feel her heart beating rapidly in her chest, her skin going cold from nerves and panic.

"Asphodel," stated Scabior. The gargoyle leapt aside to allow their passage, and the pair walked in silence to the overarching doors to the Headmaster's quarters. Scabior's grip on her arm became impossibly tight. He rapped sharply on the wood and they waited.

"Enter," came the snide voice of one Potions Master Hermione would never forget. The doors opened magically and they were greeted by Severus Snape sitting stoically in the Headmaster's chair. _Dumbledore's chair_, thought Hermione scathingly. She kept her face carefully blank.

"Hermione!" a female voice sounded from across the room. Hermione whipped her head to the side, eyes widening in surprise despite her efforts to remain expressionless. _Ginny_. A friend. Her first friendly face in over a month. Hermione opened her mouth, but she was so disused to talking that no words came. Scabior still held her arm, so she could not move, either. But Ginny was rising from her seat, coming towards her, arms outstretched-

"Sit. Down. Miss Weasley." Snape's terse voice halted the redhead in her tracks, and she shot her Headmaster a contemptuous look. But Snape's voice brooked no insubordination, and with Irish fury in her eyes, Ginny took her seat on the bench opposite the room. Hermione couldn't take her eyes off of her, transfixed. Snape rose.

"Scabior," he greeted cordially.

"Severus," acknowledged Scabior in reply, "You said you needed my pet for something." His tone was wary, which was enough to put Hermione on high alert. Her attention shifted away from Ginny.

"Yes," replied Snape silkily, his eyes trained impassively on Hermione now. She shifted her weight on her feet, nerves making her twitch in anticipation. Whatever was about to happen was going to be bad, and she started her breathing exercises right away. The room was silent, so Snape continued.

"Please, have a seat," he gestured to the comfy chairs and sofas to his left and opposite Ginny. "Not you, Mudblood," he reprimanded as Hermione moved with Scabior. She halted in her tracks, and watched as a frown passed over Scabior's face. But he released her and sat down tensely, leaving Hermione to stand awkwardly in the center of the room alone.

"Your possession of Miss Granger is most fortuitous," Snape spoke clearly and just loud enough that Ginny, who was still seated across the office, could hear. The sound of her formal name on his lips was foreign to Hermione. _Miss Granger. _How strange, she thought, breathing slowly and deliberately.

Snape was still speaking, and she focused her attention on him once more. She caught up with the conversation quickly.

"...And you see, one of my students," and now he looked pointedly in Ginny's direction, "cannot seem to comprehend the meaning of obedience."

Hermione could bet that Ginny had been giving Snape perfect Hell since the end of the war, and this was confirmed by the smug look Ginny wore when Snape's gaze left her. Snape went on,

"I need to make her understand the _consequences _incurred by defying me, as she cannot seem to get it through her thick skull on her own. And that is where Miss Granger comes in."

Hermione did not like where this was going. Where was she to fit in with this consequence? Ginny too, looked stricken, as if she had just pieced something together.

"No!" she cried, standing and nearly knocking over her chair, "You can't do-"

"_Incarcerous!_" hissed Snape, anger flashing in his eyes. Ropes flew out of the tip of his wand, snaking their way around Ginny's body, the force of them pushing her back down onto the chair. Hermione was still in the dark as to what was going to happen, but Ginny clearly had some idea. She wondered vaguely about school punishment policies nowadays.

"You will sit and be _silent_, Miss Weasley, and remember that everything that happens here is entirely _your fault._" Ginny ignored him and struggled against the enchantment. She opened her mouth to speak.

"Defying me now will only make things worse, Miss Weasley," Snape promised darkly. Ginny snapped her mouth shut, and Hermione could see that she was absolutely livid, but scared. The redhead shot Hermione a pleading look. What for, Hermione couldn't guess.

Unconsciously, Hermione began moving towards the only shred of safety offered her here. Scabior. She caught herself moving and forced her feet to stop before either man could notice. Just then, the Headmaster turned to Scabior, who had been remarkably silent throughout the entire scene.

"You won't mind, will you, if I borrow the Mudblood for a little...demonstration, would you?"

Hermione turned her attention solely to Scabior, who was working his jaw madly. And suddenly Hermione understood something. This wasn't just for Ginny. This was a test of allegiance to the Dark Lord for Scabior too. To deny Snape anything, especially something as inconsequential as a _Mudblood, _would be to defy the reigning government. Hermione began to wonder for the first time just how and why Scabior was allowed to keep her, the infamous Mudblood. And so she knew that there could only be one answer to Snape's question.

"'Course not. Go ahead."

Scabior made a show of relaxing back into the pillows of the sofa, but Hermione knew him well enough to see his entire body was still tense. Slowly, Hermione turned back to face Snape, her determination to put on a blank face battling with sheer fear. Snape raised his wand to her, stoic eyes focused on hers, but it was Ginny he addressed when his stoic voice rang across the room.

"Thisis what happens when you disobey me."

Hermione didn't even hear the _Crucio_ he must have spoken, but she felt it. Skin being ripped off layer by layer, nerves electrocuted, body eviscerated from the inside out. She knew she had fallen to the floor because the tile was cool beneath her burning cheek. She could see Snape's boots in front of her. She heard Ginny screaming. But though her own mouth opened, no sound escaped her. She wouldn't let him have the satisfaction of her voice.

In the haze of pain, she forced herself to look up at her tormentor.

_You saved Harry from Professor Quirrell_, she thought at him aggressively. Her body writhed in pain and her mind fought against it with anger.

Snape met her gaze, as if surprised by something. He took a step forward, wand still directed at her.

_You protected me from a werewolf._

Another step. His face grew blurry, his eyes vague black dots against pale skin.

_I know your secret. I know about Lily._

The curse lifted suddenly, and Hermione gagged, vomiting immediately on the floor. The shock of the lack of pain was nearly as terrible as the shock of receiving it. She had sweated straight through her clothes. Her body trembled and twitched uncontrollably. Her ears were ringing, but she could distantly hear Ginny, who was yelling at Snape.

_Shut up. Just shut up Ginny, _Hermione thought angrily, _You're not the one being tortured._

Hermione saw blood on her hands, staining the curls of flesh that were wedged under her fingernails. Her upper arms bled sluggishly, and she realized that she had scratched herself during the ordeal. Hermione leaned on all fours. The vomit was banished by one of the wizards in the room, just as her arms gave out. She pressed her forehead into the cold floor as she waiting for the world to stop spinning. Ginny was half sobbing, half yelling still, and it grated on Hermione's raw nerves.

She was thankful when Scabior gagged her a moment later, and felt immediately ashamed for thinking such a thing. She knew how terrible it was to be helpless.

Snape was saying something to Scabior, but Hermione couldn't make it out, so she concentrated again on her breathing. If Snape was up for a round two, this would be her only chance to clear her mind again.

After what felt like ages, she could raise her head. She sat up on her knees, still facing Snape, who had not moved since lifting the curse. She supported her weight by pressing her palms against her thighs. She didn't quite know what to do with herself, and she skittishly glanced up at her former professor.

The look on his face was something she didn't recognize. Puzzled? Angered? Pleased? She remained silent on the floor, calming her mind.

_Breathe in, then out. In, then out. In two-three-four, out two-three-four-five-six._

She focused on the wand in the Headmaster's was holding his wand arm to his side, but suddenly raised it back up again, making Hermione flinch violently. It was pointed directly at her forehead, inches away from sending her back into Hellish pain. She braced herself.

She recognized the pattern of wand movement a split second before he uttered the spell.

"_Legilimens_."

It was as if a spring had been set off, and Hermione reflexively cleared her mind against the attack. Seconds later, she opened her eyes to see a very surprised Snape taking an involuntary step away from her. He lowered his wand, recovering quickly before turning away from her. She blinked in confusion, then understanding.

_Huh. So that was Occlumency._

She stared at Snape, wondering what he would do now. The Headmaster seemed entirely indifferent to his failed Legilimency attempt, and brusquely turned to his redheaded student.

"You are dismissed, Miss Weasley," Snape said, completely ignoring Hermione now, "Next time, your friend won't be let off so easily. Let this be a lesson to you, and a reminder of how little power you have against me in this school."

Hermione could see Ginny's tear-stained, bright red and angry face in her peripheral vision. She was rubbing her reddened wrists that had been released from their binds. Hermione didn't feel the least bit sorry for her, surprising herself with such bitterness. She didn't used to be so callous, and that knowledge _did _hurt.

"Leave. Now," was Snape's command when Ginny didn't move quickly enough. Ginny stood and stalked towards the door stiffly. She paused by Hermione, and Hermione could tell she was searching for words and couldn't find any. Hermione wouldn't look up at her. She couldn't. Then Ginny all but ran from the room then, a blur of orange hair and black school robes. Hermione wondered what exactly the Weasley had done to earn friend-torturing as a punishment.

When she had gone, Snape turned to Scabior, still ignoring Hermione.

"How you ever managed to silence the Mudblood is a miracle," he sneered to the Snatcher, "She never would shut up when she was a student. I'm surprised you hadn't needed to cut out her tongue." He said nothing of the Occlumency battle that had just taken place moments ago.

"S'all in the way you handle 'em. Do it wif a strong hand and they're not likely ta bitch for long," said Scabior with a shrug. His accent was strong, Hermione noted, as it was only when he was drunk or under stress. His fingers twitched.

"Hm. Bravo to you then," congratulated Snape snidely, "for accomplishing something I never could seem to manage."

Now Scabior met this with a half-grin so genuine Hermione was convinced he wasn't faking. He must think he'd passed Snape's little test, and she hers. Doubtless she'd passed with flying colors; she was the controlled little Mudblood now, powerless in Scabior's hands. Wasn't she? But still, she wondered...what did Snape think of her newfound ability?

The two wizards exchanged words as she remained on the floor. She clenched and unclenched her hands weakly, the only outward sign of her anger, humiliation and stress. Her face was blank, and she tried counting floor tiles to meditate in the face of all these emotions. Exhaustion was making her weave unsteadily back and forth.

When Scabior pulled her up by her upper arm she wasn't ready for it. Her vision swam and she rocked unsteadily on her feet. She clutched blindly in front of her, staggering forward. She felt Scabior lose his grip on her, and she stumbled right into Snape. Her nose picked up the scent of dried herbs and ink as he caught her forearm. She gasped upon contact and froze, half out of dizziness and half out of fear.

"You may do best to simply levitate her out," suggested Snape calmly, righting Hermione but not letting her go. She tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding. She stared at his arm, suddenly afraid to look up at his face. His breath tickled her forehead. She could feel his gaze on her, and it made the hair prick on the back of her neck.

When she felt the levitating magic lift her from the ground, Snape released her.

"Make a show of it," the Headmaster said, "Class should be letting out."

Hermione felt familiar roughened rope twine her hands behind her back and her ankles together. She was lifted uncomfortably by her underarms and elbows by the levitation spell, making her head fall forward to alleviate the tension. After they left the office, she could hear the gasps of surprise from the students that passed by. Her half-lidded eyes caught sight of platinum blonde hair against green robes, Malfoy's presence adding to her humiliation. She couldn't hold in the tears forever, and felt them drip hotly down her face. She was sure she looked perfectly wretched and utterly defeated. Which was, of course, entirely the point.

* * *

><p>Hey there =] This chapter was probably a little weird, I know. A lot of it was mental and obscure. I'm not sure if I loved how it turned out but then I couldn't think of a way to improve it, so I kept it. Let me hear your thoughts, please. I can only improve as a writer from them.<p>

Also, no one's brought this up, but in case anyone was wondering, I think in the book Fenrir is the leader of the Snatchers, but I've made Scabior the leader for this story. Happy weekend!

~Elemental-Analysis


	6. Evil Lives

**Evil Lives**

After leaving Hogwarts grounds, Scabior released the binds around Hermione's wrists and arms, catching her as she collapsed against him.

"Shh now," he murmured, rocking back as he supported her weight. Hermione couldn't help it, she let out a sob. Her chest felt so tight, and her throat burned with the effort to hold back tears. Her head was hidden from Scabior's searching eyes, buried in his chest, but she could feel his arms tighten slightly around her frame.

"Shh love, I've got you."

_Take me away from here_, Hermione thought desperately.

"Hang tight," said Scabior, as if on cue. He gave her a slight squeeze as a warning, and then they were Apparating.

Hermione could tell that they had landed some distance from camp, for the voices of the Snatchers were distance and muffled. She bit her lip hard enough and successfully prevented another sob from escaping her. She remained held in Scabior's arms, not having the energy to stand on her own.

"Do you want to go to the tent?" She could feel Scabior's chest vibrate as he spoke. She nodded her head tiredly, and he took her there. He laid her down on the bed gently, hovering over her for a moment. Hermione tensed despite her fatigue.

_Now? He wanted-_

Scabior bent his head towards her, but only kissed her forehead before pulling away.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked her. There was no lust in his voice; he was truly asking if she wanted his company. Hermione hesitated, wary and unsure, but then shook her head truthfully. She wanted to sleep. Alone. Scabior withdrew, turning on his heel. He left the tent without another word, and Hermione sighed in relief before allowing herself to fall asleep.

* * *

><p>Scabior gave her the rest of the night and the following day to herself. After that he ordered camp to pack up. It confused Hermione why he cared enough to hold up everyone just for her. She'd certainly never felt that important to Scabior. She waded through mud and leaves next to the other Snatchers, mulling the idea over in her head.<p>

"He's always watchin' you, you know," said a voice beside her. Hermione turned her head, surprised despite herself. None of the Snatchers ever talked to her. Ever.

The man was rough-looking, like all the Snatchers. His chin was stubbly, his hair dirty blonde and unwashed. He looked to be in his forties. There was a mole near his left eye, and a scar that ran the length of his jaw line beneath it. Hermione eyed him warily as his blue eyes flicked to meet hers.

"Scabior, tha' is," continued the man. He gestured with is thumb behind him. Hermione followed his gaze, but could not pick out her captor from the throng of other Snatchers.

"Aye, occasionally he'll be leading up front," continued the stranger, "but oft times he'll drop back and join the troop behind. Just ta keep an eye on you." He gave her a knowing look.

Hermione dropped her gaze, uncomfortable, but could still feel the man's intense gaze. She didn't know what to make of this. The Snatcher thrust out his hand.

"They call me The Bard," said The Bard. Hermione eyed his hand warily, face betraying nothing. She didn't accept the handshake, but nodded her head towards him in acknowledgement. She needed no introduction herself. The man dropped his hand, apparently unoffended by her lack of courtesy.

"I hear you won't talk for nothin'," said The Bard to her. Hermione didn't respond but arched an eyebrow at him as if to prove a point. The Bard barked out a short laugh at his own folly.

"Suppose that's true enough, then. Guess that'd make you a good secret-keeper."

Hermione, who had not been paying particular attention to where she was going, tripped over a root and stumbled forward. The Bard caught her arm as she went down, righting her.

"Steady now. Don't want you t'harm yourself on my watch."

He grinned at her, and she spotted a silver amalgam-capped tooth in the back of his mouth. It was an old technique used by dentists, and she wondered if The Bard had been Muggle-born. That thought instantly provoked a sharp stab of longing in her chest. She suppressed it forcibly.

The Bard released her suddenly then, stepping away quickly. Hermione frowned slightly. Surely she wasn't _that _repulsive to touch, especially if he was a Mudblood himself.

Arms sweeping around her middle cleared her confusion as Scabior's familiar scent reached her nose from behind. He kissed her neck possessively, drawing her further away from The Bard. The other Snatcher raised his arms in peace, bemused. Then as quickly as he'd grabbed her, Scabior let her go.

"I'll see you later, pet," he murmured into her ear. "Bard," he acknowledged shortly before disappearing into the crowd.

Hermione watched him go, scowling, but The Bard's laugh drew her attention away from Scabior.

"I see his feelings are not quite reciprocated," he jested. "Not that I blame you, to be sure!" he placated hastily to her disbelieving look, "I wouldn't want to sleep with him either." He gave an almighty shudder, before laughing at himself.

Hermione didn't crack a smile. Secretly, she still burned with embarrassment to hear that _everyone _knew she was sleeping with Scabior. No, being _raped _by Scabior. She wondered what the Snatchers thought of her.

If The Bard sensed any of her discomfort, he certainly didn't let on. He seemed entirely content to have found a one-sided conversation partner, and he chatted at her for the next solid hour. It was exhausting to be the focus of such casual social interaction after so long in isolation. She wasn't sure she liked this Bard, but he didn't seem...terrible, yet. He didn't appear to despise her like so many who fought for the Dark Lord did. He didn't seem to want her sexually either, and she wasn't being the focus of some ridicule or torture. Hermione wondered why he bothered with her at all.

When Scabior called for camp to be set up for the night, Hermione was surprised that so much time had passed. Just as the flurry of activity began, The Bard reached out and grabbed her hand. Hermione couldn't suppress her flinch and the wave of panic that washed over her. The Bard loosened his grip apologetically, and pressed something into her palm before releasing her.

Hermione looked curiously at what she'd been given. A bag of sugary orange cubes rested in her palm.

"Spiced ginger," said The Bard, "For your stomachaches."

Hermione opened the bag, the pungent scent of ginger reaching her nose. She looked up to give her silent thanks to the strange man, but he was gone.

* * *

><p>They were leaving the woods. Hermione could tell by the gradual thinning of the trees, the loose pebbles that kicked up into her shoes, and the lack of wildlife noises. They had been hiking for two days, and though Hermione had since seen The Bard—appropriately leading the Snatchers in song and entertainment at dinner—he remained at a distance and didn't approach her again. Scabior didn't bring up their encounter to her, and she wondered at the relationship between the two men. It didn't seem hostile, but she was uncertain if Scabior was indeed involved with The Bard's elusiveness, or whether it was by The Bard's own volition that he hadn't spoken to her again.<p>

Walking under the shade of coniferous trees, she followed directly behind Scabior today, keeping well away from the other Snatchers; though she hadn't minded The Bard, she didn't want other Snatchers to make it a habit of walking with her. As much as she hated him, as much as she cringed at the thought of his touch, she at least knew Scabior, knew what he wanted with her. The unknown evils that resided in his followers struck a chord of fear still in her chest. She shuddered involuntarily whenever she thought of Fenrir.

Exhausted beyond reason from their trek, Hermione paused and braced herself against a tree. She allowed her eyes to droop closed for the briefest of moments. When she opened them, Scabior had turned around and was staring at her with a half-grin on his face.

"Almost there, love," he said with little sympathy. Hermione did not answer him.

"Come," he pulled the crook of her elbow with his hand, leading her onwards. Knowing she would follow, Scabior let go and Hermione resumed walking silently behind him. Her feet throbbed and her head pounded. Her stomach churned but that, at least, she could take care of, sucking on a piece of ginger root.

The woods disappeared to nothing as the moon rose in full, and Hermione could see in the dim lighting that they were on the outskirts of some town. It was a tiny village; the flat land that stretched out below their vantage covered maybe no more than a few square miles. Only a few houses still had lights on, though it wasn't that late in the night.

Hermione felt a ball of anxiety knot in her stomach. If this was a dark wizarding community, she was in dangerous territory. If this was a Muggle town...the knot twisted painfully. She felt nauseous and dizzy, and could feel the bile in the back of her throat. She forcibly swallowed it back down.

Scabior was talking to his army.

"Our new camp, men," he was saying, gesturing expansively with his arm to the town, "Make yourselves at home! Kill the lot of them, take no prisoners—no, Joren, I don't _care _if she's the prettiest whore in all of Britain. Prepare yourselves for a week of vacation, courtesy of our magnanimous Dark Lord."

He gave a slight bow to the troop in conclusion. The men answered with mixed cries of excitement and anticipation before charging down the hill.

Hermione felt the change in air pressure as they swept past her and Scabior. She clung to herself tightly, her fears confirmed. This time, she could not stop herself, and she fell to her knees dry-heaving. Nothing came up; she hadn't eaten in what felt like ages. She saw in her periphery that Scabior was crouching down beside her, but his eyes were on the village, not her.

"Look, pet," he commanded of her, "Watch."

He gripped her chin and forced her head up. Blinking away the tears that had leaked out when she'd vomited, Hermione did as she was told. The windows of the houses flashed red and green, as if fireworks were going off inside them. The sound of muted screams reached Hermione's ears, and she tried to ignore it. She wondered how many people lived here, how many were to die tonight. How many would find out tomorrow that their friends and relatives had died. She stared stonily at the village, now brightly lit, counting chimneys and fence posts until she was completely desensitized to the massacre.

She could feel Scabior's gaze upon her now, but she continued watching and counting below until he touched her underarm, signaling for her to get up. She rose quickly and followed him down to the ruins of the village. The green flashes came fewer and farther between as they approached. Hermione guessed that, in the span of just thirty minutes, the whole town was nearly rid of its residents.

Scabior kicked the broken door of one house lightly with his boot. It swung open with an ancient creak. Hermione followed him inside, stopping in the entrance hall.

The former family had been having a night in, it seemed. In the living room directly in front of her, the television buzzed with noise from a movie. Four figures slumped over the furniture. The mother and father, face-down on the couch where they had fallen. A teenaged boy, collapsed against the coffee table. And behind the television, in an obviously failed attempt to hide, the partially exposed body of a toddler. Hermione couldn't determine the sex from her vantage.

The sight did nothing but help her distance herself further emotionally, shutting off the parts of her that felt stricken and heart-broken.

Hermione walked forward then, passing Scabior and sidestepping the drooping bodies. She tapped the power button on the television, and the house immediately fell into blissful silence. She spared a glance down at the child. A girl. Her stomach clenched briefly before she turned away.

Scabior was watching her again. He yawned hugely then, but cut off when a group of eight Snatchers entered through the broken front door. Hermione glimpsed The Bard among them, but he wasn't looking at her. Someone was initiating a poker night using the loot they'd scrounged up from the village. The kitchen table off to the right was set up immediately, Scabior joining in the fun. He swung his leg over a chair, straddling it backwards, and dealt out the cards. He looked over at Hermione, who was still standing among the bodies in the living room.

"Why don't you go find us the master bedroom, pet?" he called over to her above the raucous. Clearly he could see the dark circles under her eyes, she thought, and the exhausted trembling of her body. She must look like perfect hell. She gave a short nod and found the stairs, a spiraling staircase that made her dizzy to climb.

She found the master bedroom easily, and used the toilet in the adjoining bathroom to relieve herself. She eyed the shower with envy, imagining the feel of hot water running over her skin. Without further thought, she stripped and stepped in. The water poured out hot, and she let it beat a steady rhythm against her head. It dripped down her face in rivers, scalding her skin. It felt wonderful to _feel _something, without feeling anything at all.

Hermione stayed in the shower for a solid twenty minutes, until the bathroom had filled up with steam and the air was getting hard to breathe. Then she turned off the water. She couldn't bear to put her dirty clothes back on, so she left them on the floor and grabbed a towel from a linen cabinet. she dried first her hair and then her body, wrapping the towel around her torso when she was finished. Without the sound of running water filling her ears, she could hear the games going on downstairs still.

Catching sight of herself in the mirror, Hermione opened the towel again, revealing her body. She tried to think objectively about herself. Since Snape's attack Scabior hadn't touched her, so only the remnants of old bruises were visible. Her eyes had dark ugly circles underneath them from a lack of both sleep and nutrition. She traced them lightly with her fingertips. Her palms felt rough and calloused against her skin. Her arms were thin but muscularly defined from constant movement; looking down, she saw that her thighs and calves were similarly hypertrophied.

Her eyes at last rested on her stomach. Where she expected to find flat, emaciated skin she found instead a slight curvature to her tummy. She furrowed her brow, and through her tired mind examined herself. There was something that ought to be making sense to her right now, but it was just beyond her reach mentally.

She sighed, frustrated with herself, and ran a hand through her hair. Her fingers entangled quickly in the knots. Wrapping the towel back around her body, she went in search for a comb.

Opening the bathroom cabinets one by one, Hermione found stacks of towels, linens, medicines and toiletries neatly stacked away. This had certainly been a tidy family, she thought, ignoring the pang of loss that lanced through her chest. She shook her head to gather her wits.

_They weren't even people you knew. Stop caring about them._

She located a flimsy comb in the fourth cabinet she checked, among a bin of glittery scrunchies and tiny bows that the little girl presumably wore. She raked it through her hair roughly, praying it wouldn't break against the nest of knots.

She was about to shut the cabinet door when she glanced at the top shelf and noticed a box of tampons and another of pads. The pale green and white wrapping was easily identifiable. She reached up, thinking she ought to grab some for when her period hit on the road.

Her hand froze when she touched the box.

_When my period comes._

She turned slowly towards the mirror, hardly breathing. The towel about her torso dropped, revealing her naked reflection. She stared at her stomach.

How many weeks had they been on the road? How many times had Scabior raped her in as many days?

_I'm..._

What had been niggling at the back of her mind finally clicked. The nausea, the cramps, the unexplained dizziness, the unconquerable fatigue. She felt a wave of realization wash over her, sending chills up her spine and making the hairs stand up on her arms.

_I'm pregnant._

Her knees thudded solidly against the floor as she fell. She hugged herself and clutched the towel over her once more, in panicked shock. The comb lay forgotten on the tile next to her, the box of tampons crumpled on the shelf.

She felt sick to her stomach, and promptly threw up in the toilet next to her. When she trusted her balance, she dragged herself to her feet. How could she have not noticed? How could she have ignored the signs, ignored the possibility...

She sucked in a huge breath.

_Because you've gotten so good at ignoring reality._

How could Scabior have been so stupid? How could Scabior have _done_ this to her? A child. A _child. _A human being, borne of rape and vengeance. Hated, unwanted.

_Evil._

Her body shook with the effort to remain standing. This realization, this feeling...it was ten times worse than the Cruciatus, and it wouldn't relent. She vomited again into the toilet, gasping for air in the aftermath.

She couldn't look at herself anymore. She flipped the light switch to the bathroom and entered the darkness of the adjacent bedroom.

Hermione crawled under the sheets, damp towel and all, and curled into a ball. She rested a hand tentatively over her stomach, which seemed an alien part of her body now. She stared off into space, not thinking of the dead family downstairs, not thinking of the rest of the dead villagers, not thinking of the murders and rapists in the kitchen. Not thinking of anything but of that thing growing inside of her, morphing into a person. Not thinking anything but her baby until the wall ahead of her blurred, the noises downstairs grew distant, and she saw nothing, heard nothing, and felt nothing at all.

* * *

><p>Sorry for the wait, RL is an attention whore. Let me know what you think?<p> 


	7. Conflict

_Does he know?_

The question had been buzzing in her head all day long. Hermione stood from her crouched position on the ground and wiped sweat from her brow. She tossed the dandylion she was holding behind her shoulder.

_Does Scabior know?_

She bent over again and viciously ripped up a weed from the outdoor patio.

_Does he know about the baby?_

She had been weeding for the better part of the morning already. There was something intensely satisfying and cathartic about ripping up life from its roots and tossing it aside like trash. Hermione vaguely wondered if retired Death Eaters enjoyed gardening. She tore another vine up from the ground and chucked it over her shoulder. Her fingers were raw and red from scraping against stone and her fingernails were caked with dirt, but she hardly paid attention.

She had been self-consciously touching her stomach all day, wondering at the life that was inside her now. She could guess that she could be anywhere between up to three months pregnant by now, if she conceived the first night she was with Scabior. She had no idea what she was supposed to do or expect as a pregnant woman. Not knowing terrified her.

_I wish mum was here. Or Ron._

Hermione exhaled long and slow, forcing out the memories from her mind. It was unproductive to dwell on the impossible.

Then she resumed uprooting plant life.

_The family here might have a book or something on pregnancy_, Hermione thought to herself. With three kids, one of them a toddler no less, there was surely some pregnancy guide in the house. It wasn't a long shot, and Hermione figured she may as well investigate. Later. After she finished this patio.

It was two hours and ninety-three weeds later that Hermione finally called it quits and entered the home through the back door. It was vacant save for herself; she had woken up late to an empty bed and an empty house this morning, which suited her just fine. So much the better if Scabior happened to forget about her and leave her here.

She discarded her shoes and peeled off her sweat-soaked shirt, walking through the house to the kitchen in her bra and jeans. She kept glancing down at her tummy. It was hardly noticeable, she thought. Just the slightest curve. Who would guess there was something living inside her?

She gulped a full glass of water and left the cup on the counter. Then she washed the grit from her sore hands and flexed her fingers experimentally. Aware that she was still half-naked, she grabbed a clean shirt from the laundry room before she found her way to the study and its small collection of books.

She was glad Scabior didn't care if she read-or care much about what she did at all, for that matter. She scanned the bookshelves until she found what she was looking for on the middle shelf-_What to Expect When You're Expecting, _and _The Expectant Father_. She chose the former of the two, and then hesitated. While _he _might not care what she read, Hermione certainly didn't want Scabior Apparating in at any moment to find her reading pregnancy books. If he didn't already know she was pregnant, she wasn't about to tell him now. Hermione grabbed a larger book on North American geology and stuck the _What to Expect _book inside. Then she curled up into a corner with both books, and began to read.

Two hours later Hermione had to put down the book, feeling sick inside all over again. She placed it carefully on the shelf where she'd found it before also returning the geology book.

"Good read?"

Hermione gasped and whirled around, nearly tripping over in her surprise. She clutched the edge of a desk to steady herself, heart racing in panic.

The Bard was leaning casually against the study door, a half-smile quirked on his lips.

"Steady now, didn't mean to startle ye," he said, clearly unaware of the extent of Hermione's raging emotions. Trying to keep a blank face, Hermione relinquished her grip on the desk, balling her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. The Bard approached her, and she stepped aside to keep a small distance between them. He didn't comment, but reached out and plucked her book from the shelf. Hermione saw him grimace when he read the title.

"North American geology, eh?" He made another face and returned the book to its place. "You must be bored," he teased. His eyes scanned the shelves for a moment before returning to hers. Hermione took another step back under his intense gaze. He broke eye contact first, motioning carelessly towards the door.

"I hope I'm not keeping ye from doing anything," he said, and shot her a look she couldn't interpret, "Leave if you've got someplace to be." His tone was not threatening or angry. Hermione hesitated, giving him one last glance before scurrying out of the room. As she left, she saw him turn thoughtfully back to the bookshelf. Her gut twisted, and she couldn't shake the feeling that The Bard knew more than he let on.

Needing air, Hermione let herself out of the house, walking briskly down the sidewalk. By the end of the block she was in a full-out run. The knot of trepidation and worry, of fear and uncertainty surfaced, and she pounded out the emotions into the concrete. She ran until her feet ached and her calves burned, but she didn't stop until she thought she might collapse from exhaustion. When she finally wore herself out, she leaned against a tree, heaving and sobbing into the rough bark. She slid to the ground, feeling the wood cut into her face and hands but not caring.

When she was able to breathe normally, and her tears subsided, Hermione looked up from her perch on the ground. She had no idea where she was; she had left the heart of the town far behind, and the woodsy area around her was run-down and unused. There was a trail nearby, but for the life of her Hermione couldn't remember having been on it before she arrived at her tree. The trail led into the woods in both directions, and there was no way to know where it went.

Not really feeling she had the energy to get up, Hermione forced herself to stand anyway. The sun was far in the West by now, nearing the horizon. Hermione shivered, cold now that she had stopped her marathon. She rubbed her arms with her hands and started walking along the trail. She snapped off a twig from a branch and twiddled it between her fingers as she walked. She vaguely wondered if she was headed in the right direction, but couldn't truly bring herself to care.

After maybe twenty minutes of walking Hermione came to a clearing, and deduced that she was indeed going the wrong direction. The trail evidently led to the tiny town's cemetery. The tombstones were obviously old, some at odd angles and most worn away by decades of erosion. Hermione walked in between them, reading the epitaphs. A few dated back to the late nineteenth century, attesting to the age of the now-ghost town. Hermione felt a twinge of sadness; one night of Snatchers was all it took to wipe this historic little place out.

At the far edge of the cemetery Hermione stopped next to a headstone labeled _Edward Clarke, 1891-1902_. Hermione sat next to the grave, exhausted. She huddled against the cold rock, leaning her head against the lettering. She wondered how he had died. So young, and at such an immature time for medicine. It could have been anything-a disease, an injury...

Maybe it was intentional, she thought, body tired but mind wild. Maybe someone murdered this person, this eleven-year old boy, Edward Clarke. Maybe his mother had been raped too, and after so long she couldn't stand to even look at her child. Maybe she had killed him. Hermione shuddered, feeling sick from her imagination. Would she do that to her unborn child? _Could_ she do that? The thought of murdering an imaginary young boy was so horrific, how could she think for a second that she could kill her own flesh and blood? She couldn't. She _wouldn't_. She shook her head, willing her imagination to calm its rampage.

Hermione stayed in her curled position beside Edward's grave, holding a sort of vigil for the child until the sun went down. It was a beautiful sunset, all bright pinks and shimmery golds. When it was dusk and the air grew cold, Hermione thought maybe she could just sleep here for the night. She was too tired to go back, and didn't know the way besides. Nothing could happen to her out here that was worse than what she had already suffered. So, turning her back to the light wind, Hermione stayed with Edward, falling asleep with an arm protectively around his headstone.

It was fully dark out when Hermione was awakened by a searing pain. Moaning, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, clutching her arm. An agonizing burn scorched her skin, and as she rolled up the sleeve of her shirt, she saw the stag, horrifically scarred upon her arm, glowing bright like hot coals.

_Scabior._

She ground her teeth together, forcefully trying not to scream, but her moans grew progressively louder as the pain burned her. She staggered to her feet, unsure what to do. She'd never gotten so far in her previous escape attempts for him to activate the horrid magic before, but she had a very base and driven feeling she had to get to Scabior. _Now. _

She looked around wildly, but the crescent moon above her offered scant light, and she didn't know where to go. There was no way to make the pain stop, and Hermione couldn't prevent the tears that were starting to flow. Gripping her wrist, she stumbled across the cemetery. She tripped over a gravestone, falling with a cry to the ground. She inhaled dirt and leaves as she tried to push herself up. The pain on her arm was driving her to a panic, and she crawled on the ground until she had the energy to stand and walk again.

Whimpering in pain and confusion, she walked back the way she thought she'd originally come from. But the town was so far away, how could she last so long? She felt a feeling of desolation creep into her stomach, making her cry harder.

A sudden, familiar _Crack_ to her right made her spin around quickly.

"Hermione!"

That was Scabior's voice. Calling her. Looking for her. She ran to him, stumbling and tripping, until she collided against his chest in the dark. Her pain subsided instantly, the glowing scar fading white. She clung to his body in relieved exhaustion, and he gripped her tightly.

"Merlin," she heard him whisper lowly, just before they Apparated. The unexpected force knocked the wind from Hermione's chest, and when they landed in the bedroom Hermione staggered backwards. Scabior released her, and Hermione saw for the first time that he looked angry. Furious. She backed up, confused.

"You tried to run," he spat accusingly at her. His lips were in a thin, hard line as he advanced on her. Realization dawned and Hermione shook her head frantically, backing away with her hands up.

"After all those times I caught you before. Did you honestly think you could get away?" Scabior barked at her. He raised his hand high, giving Hermione just enough time to flinch before he slapped her hard in the face. Hermione could taste the blood in her mouth, and she stared at him in shock.

"Are you stupid?" Hermione cringed, shaking her head. This was going so horrifically wrong.

"Did you think I would let you go?" Another slap. Hermione cried out, backed into a corner now. She slunk against the wall, crouched to the floor.

"Did you think I'd let you leave me?" Spittle flew from his mouth and landed on her cheek. His boot connected with her rib cage, leaving Hermione gasping and seeing stars.

"I will _never _let you go, little witch," Scabior seethed at her, "You are _mine_. How many times must I tell you?"

Another kick aimed at her stomach sent Hermione into a new, foreign panic: an insuppressible, primal protectiveness for the life inside her. _Her _baby. Her hands blocked the blow instinctively, protecting her stomach. She screamed as she felt something crack in her fingers. She tried to get away from Scabior, only her baby on her mind, but he grabbed her and hauled her to her feet. He slammed her back against the wall as she tried to wriggle away. Her head bounced against the wood, making her dizzy.

"Scabior!"

A booming voice sounded from the bedroom doorway, angry and reproving. Both Hermione and Scabior turned towards the source of the voice. The Bard approached them, face cool but eyes flashing.

"Release the poor girl, Scabior! What kind of a wizard are you?"

Scabior huffed angrily, "Stay out of this, Bard. She was trying to make a run for it, I needed-"

"Clearly she is both terrified and hurt, so whatever point you _needed _to make is well and done," said The Bard, coolly cutting Scabior off. He laid a hand on Scabior's wrist, and after a moment the Snatcher reluctantly relinquished his grip on Hermione, scowling.

Hermione sank to the floor gratefully. Her head pounded asynchronously against the beat of her heart, making her dizzy and sick. She cradled her injured hand protectively to her chest and tried to make herself as small as possible as she tried to listen to the two men argue.

"-The cemetery!" The Bard was saying, "You found her in the _cemetery?_ Don't you think if she were trying to run she'd have gotten farther? And done it more cleverly? Clearly you have forgotten who she is, Scabior."

_Who I am? _Thought Hermione dully. The girl who killed her best friends. The girl who let Voldemort win. The girl who wouldn't fight back hard enough. The girl who was sleeping with the enemy. The girl who carried his child.

_Who am I?_ She turned her face towards the wall in shame, trying to will away the endless tears that formed in her eyes. She forced herself to continue listening to the conversation above her.

"-Know you're upset about the summons, but taking out you anger on the girl is childish and ridiculous!"

"Don't you dare tell me how to treat what's mine! Remember you are a guest in my circle here, Bard, nothing more-"

"I will tell you when you've crossed so many lines it even makes _me _sick, Scabior," the Bard snapped furiously, "For Merlin's sake, _look _at her!"

There was silence in the room, and Hermione could feel hairs prick up on her arms and neck as she was observed. She kept her eyes trained steadily at the junction between the wall and the floor. She was acutely aware of the leaves in her hair and the dirt on her face. Her clothes she saw were ripped and dirty by now. She must look terrible, she thought, and her face burned.

"Not even her clothes are fit for survivin' in the wilderness, Scabior," said The Bard more quietly, clearly reasoning with the Snatcher, "Don't you think she'd have picked up on a thing or two after travelin' with your lot? She looks like a little girl gone got herself lost, not a runaway."

Hermione hadn't moved a muscle throughout the entire observation, and she could hardly breathe as she heard this man defend her. She couldn't believe or understand why he bothered to care, but she was infinitely grateful that _someone _did.

She heard Scabior heave a great sigh, a signal to Hermione that The Bard had won the fight. She relaxed if only by a fraction.

"Leave us, Bard. It seems I have some matters to attend to." Scabior's voice was stiff. It wasn't an apology by any stretch to her, and it wasn't an admittance or repentance. But it _was_ a dismissal, and Hermione heard The Bard's footsteps retreating from her and the click of a door shutting.

There was a long silence between captive and captor, and Hermione could feel her pulse begin to quicken as she felt again much like prey, trapped in her corner of the room.

"Get up," Scabior's voice cut coarsely through the silence, and Hermione jumped. It took a second for her brain to process his order, and she struggled clumsily to her feet. She could feel her whole body shaking with equal parts fear and exhaustion, and she wavered on her feet.

In a blur of movement Scabior was there to steady her, making her flinch violently and nearly fall over. She would have if it were not for the strong grip on her upper arm.

"Steady love," Scabior murmured. He sighed hugely, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He began to finger her hair now, and Hermione cringed distrustfully against his touch. How could he say that? He was constantly hurting her. Scabior persisted in touching her hair, her shoulders, her neck.

"Look at me," he commanded. Hermione hesitantly obeyed, leveling her eyes with his chest. He gripped her chin lightly and tilted it up until she was forced to meet his gaze. He studied her for a minute, and Hermione could tell he was reassuring himself that The Bard was correct.

"I cannot lose you pet-I _will _not. You are mine. Do you understand?"

Realizing he expected an answer, and feeling her heart ache with shame and injustice, Hermione nodded slowly. She tore her gaze from his once more, eyes and cheeks hot.

"You are mine," Scabior reiterated. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, plucking out twigs and leaves as he did so. He kissed her forehead for a long moment.

"It's late," Scabior told her, "Shower and come to bed love."

He gripped her hands lightly, making Hermione gasp and cry out in pain. She jerked her hands away, tears springing back to her eyes. Scabior was quick though and gripped her forearms, pulling them into the light. He examined her hands, deftly touching and prodding her flesh until he was satisfied.

"I'll get you some Skele-Grow," he murmured, a note of regret in his voice. He ran his fingers over hers, his touch so feather-light it didn't even hurt. He released her and rummaged through his satchel until he found the vile stuff. All the Snatchers had it on hand, lest one of them take a turn for the worse on the treacherous hills they climbed. Hermione downed it without thought, forcing herself not to gag.

"It'll take a few hours to heal, but you shouldn't have more than a couple fractures," Scabior offered. And then, "Do you need help bathing?" His tone was mildly suggestive but honest.

_No. _Hermione shook her head, careful not to seem too vehement. _Definitely not_. Scabior had yet to make her have sex with him in the bath, but she didn't doubt for a second that he wouldn't given the opportunity. But as long as she could keep it that way, bath time to Hermione was her time and hers alone.

"Alright then, pet," said Scabior as Hermione watched him with a carefully blank face. "Hurry up and come to bed."

Hermione managed the shower knobs one-handed, and allowed the water to beat a steady rhythm against her head as she bathed. She could already feel the Skele-Grow working, and the dull ache in her hands was growing more painfully acute by the minute. Her mind whirled with conflicted thoughts about her baby, her primal gut reactions challenging her moral codes and mentality. She was almost thankful for the pain in her hand as it distracted her from her thinking so much. She finished showering quickly and toweled off, anxious to be asleep for the worst of it.

Scabior was still awake by the time Hermione made it to bed. She crawled under the sheets apprehensively, hoping he wouldn't want sex now that she had just showered. He circled his arm around her waist as if he wanted to. She didn't know if it was because he knew she was already in pain, or because he was sorry, but he stopped there.

Hermione gripped his forearm with her good hand, squeezing it involuntarily as the pain intensified, and he murmured softly in her ear. His hand stroked lightly against her forehead, and his grip about her waist tightened fractionally in possession. Except for the intense pain in her hand and her unconquerable worry over her baby, it was almost...nice. Scabior's rhythmic breathing was steady and slow against her shoulder. His chest rumbled and sent tiny vibrations into her skin when he spoke. His touch was relaxed and unthreatening. The bed was warm and soft, and she was clean and dry. So despite the exhausting day and her pain and despite her emotions and Scabior's mercurial moods, Hermione let herself relax long enough to fall asleep in the Snatcher's arms.

* * *

><p>Hey guys, I'm so sorry for the delay between chapters...and I can't even promise that I will update more regularly. I <em>can <em>promise that this story will not be abandoned though. Hopefully I will have more plot-forward chapters before the New Year, but between two jobs and school I can't actually promise a whole lot. Bear with me! If you have ideas or thoughts, please feel free to share them~

~E-A


	8. Misconception

The group stayed in the village for three nights. It apparently had been a sleepy little town, for it only received two visitors in that time span-visitors that ended with a one-way trip.

Hermione was in the middle of a morning shower when Scabior interrupted to tell her to get ready.

"Time to go, love," he said, eyes traveling down her body hungrily.

Hermione shut off the water, not returning his gaze. She tried to side-step him to get her towel, but he grabbed her shoulders, halting her. He lifted her chin with a finger, forcing her to look up at him before he kissed her. His hands moved up her body, over her abdomen up her sides. The bruises he'd made the other night against her ribcage had healed to a yellowish-brown color, but they still hurt to the touch. His hands traveled to her breasts. He squeezed them roughly, and Hermione fought to distance herself. His lowered his mouth to hers, and his tongue moved around in her mouth like a snake. She tried not to gag and push him away. Finally, he released her with a reluctant sigh, finger tracing her jaw line.

"We really do need to go now," he told her, handing her the towel. Hermione accepted it, and he left her in the bathroom.

She looked herself over in the mirror ahead of her, eyes drawn to her tummy. She sighed and dried her cooled skin and hair. She dressed and quickly twisted her hair into a tight ponytail before it grew uncontrollably frizzy.

She surveyed the bedroom quickly before she left; she owned nothing and so had nothing to pack, but she looked around out of habit. She spied a white piece of cloth peeking out of the top dresser drawer, and pulled it out for curiosity's sake. It was a handkerchief, white and lacy and with an elaborate rose embroidered in the corner. It was rather pretty, she thought, and she put it in her pocket to keep. The owner wouldn't need it anymore.

She went down the stairs and checked the living room and kitchen for anything Scabior might have left. Chances were that if he discovered he'd lost something, she'd bear the brunt of his anger. The living room had been banished of its occupants on the first night, and she found nothing there. She did find a playing card - the queen of hearts- under the kitchen table, and she vaguely remembered a heated argument about which Snatcher had been cheating in the night before last's poker match. She pocketed the card along with her handkerchief. On an impulse she also stole a Muggle pen that was sitting on the counter. Then she left the house to join the crew outside.

Most were still assembling, but Hermione found Scabior soon enough. She handed him the playing card wordlessly and received a broad grin and a sloppy kiss for her efforts. She turned away as soon as she could and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She stood close as the last of the early-morning stragglers made it outside. They all must have known where they were headed, for Scabior gripped her upper arm and before she knew it they were Apparating.

To her incredible dismay, they landed in the forest. She hated the forest, hated nearly every memory she had of wooded areas. She felt suddenly like crying, and cursed her hormones over and again. She managed to keep the tears and emotions at bay, but her body was still unprepared for the Apparition, and she vomited almost immediately from the jolt. She heard a few snickers from the Snatchers about how weak she was as a Mudblood.

No, she thought, I'm weak because I'm starved, raped, beaten, and held prisoner. And pregnant. She fumed silently at their ignorance and depravity.

To her surprise, Scabior came to her defense, calling off the jeerers and banishing her mess. He said nothing to her as he helped her to her feet.

She couldn't figure him out. One minute he was a raging with fiery emotion, the next gentle and caring, and then just as quickly he was cold and cruel. His moods confused her, setting her on edge constantly. She bit her lip as she followed him into the woods. Ever since the graveyard debacle, she hadn't been allowed out of Scabior's sight. The lack of personal space was wearing on Hermione's mind and grating on her nerves. She needed space to stay calm.

Thinking of that night made Hermione think once again of the snippets of argument that The Bard and Scabior had had.

_"-Know you're upset about the summons, but taking out you anger on the girl is childish and ridiculous!"_

_"Don't you tell me how to treat what's mine! Remember you are a guest in my circle here, Bard, nothing more-"_

_"I will tell you when you've crossed so many lines it even makes _me_ sick, Scabior."_

Maybe it was all nothing, maybe she was as usual, over-thinking things. Maybe she'd heard something wrong and there was nothing to be concerned with. Merlin knew she had enough on her mind at the time. And if Scabior had received a summons to headquarters at Malfoy Manor, he was certainly in no rush to get there.

_Too bad, too_, thought Hermione miserably as she trekked through mud of the forest.

And what was the deal with The Bard? Hermione couldn't figure him out either. He owed her nothing, but he so far seemed to be an ally. And if she'd heard right, he wasn't even a Snatcher. What was he, then? She'd seen no Dark Mark on his forearm. He certainly wasn't a prisoner as she was. So why was he here? Hermione couldn't fathom it.

They seemed to walk endlessly for the next few days, giving Hermione loads of time to ponder her questions. Hermione assumed they must be in an area where magic was detected, for their wands were never out, fires were always created with flint, and tents were pitched by hand. Most wizards would become agitated by now, but Snatchers had a gift for the outdoors and seemed to enjoy the Muggle way of camping. Hermione didn't want to think about whose detection they were avoiding. She probably knew them.

It must have been almost a week of travel when Scabior shook her awake early one morning and told her to "behave" for the day. He kissed her soundly but didn't push beyond that, for which she was grateful. They'd had sex that was rougher than usual the previous night, and Hermione felt incredibly sore, her lower back and abdomen aching dully. It unnerved her that he probed so close to the life inside of her, and she tried not to think about it.

Though she was exceedingly fatigued still, she couldn't go back to sleep. Secretly, she was elated that she now had her long-awaited alone time. So after lying lazily in bed for a few minutes, she rose and exited the tent. It was not quite dawn; she guessed it must be around four in the morning, and concluded that an attack was being made by the Snatchers today. The camp was quiet, but because it was so early she couldn't tell if that was because many had left with Scabior or because they were still asleep.

They had pitched tent last night near a stream, which was lucky for her. She headed for it to bathe, last night's remnants of sex still clinging uncomfortably to her thighs. She had made it about halfway there when she heard something in the bushes to her left.

She froze in her tracks as Fenrir Greyback stepped out. His wolfish eyes and pointed teeth leered at her, distorting his warped face further. Hermione took a step away from him.

"If it isn't Scabior's little Mudblood cunt," he growled at her. Hermione could feel her heart rate increase, and she backed up further.

"I've been paying special attention to you," he told her, as if this were an honor. Hermione remembered the many days of walking and dogged avoidance of Fenrir. With the revelation of the baby, though, she had been less careful, less aware of his presence.

_Stupid, Hermione. Stupid!_

"I've been watching you ever since I saw you in the paper seven years ago. The brightest witch of her age," he sneered mockingly, quoting the _Daily Prophet_, "Who was stupid enough to believe that she could defeat the Dark Lord."

Hermione's mouth was quite dry, and she trembled as he stalked closer. She couldn't outrun him, she knew. She was beginning to feel dizzy, anxiety and adrenaline making her heart race now.

"I've wanted to turn you ever since," he confessed lowly. His eyes blazed with unconcealed desire.

Hermione gasped her horror and turned instinctively to flee. He pounced on her in a second, and she landed painfully on her stomach. Immediately she panicked about the baby. She coughed to get the wind back into her lungs and struggled to push him off her. He flipped her over easily to her back and straddled her hips, hands tearing at the high collar of her jacket. Her fingers scrabbled at the dirt, desperately trying to find something to defend herself with. They brushed against her coat, and she could feel the Muggle pen that she had stolen inside her pocket.

Thinking fast, she made her body relax, breathing hard in concentration. Fenrir was taken by surprise at her sudden limpness, but grinned toothily down at her. He tilted her head from side to side, as if appraising her. Her hand crept into her pocket, unnoticed.

"You'll make such a pretty werechild," he growled. He bore his fangs down at her, and in the moment that he bent down to bite her skin, Hermione whipped her hand out of her pocket. Brandishing the pen, she stabbed him with all the force she could muster. Fenrir roared his rage and pain, rearing backwards.

"You little _bitch!_" he snarled.

She had missed the heart, then. Hermione twisted and scrambled, fighting for her life to get away. Fenrir ripped the pen from his shoulder, throwing it to the side.

"I will beat you into submission like a bitch," he vowed, seething. He grabbed her ponytail of hair and yanking her back down to the ground.

_Scabior! Where are you? _

He stood and towered over her. It was mere seconds before the first kick landed, catching her in the stomach. Hermione's breath got knocked out of her and she rolled to her side, gasping, earning her another kick to her back. The blows rained down, on her chest, her thighs, her abdomen-everywhere. He was so strong, so fast.

_Help me!_

She vomited, choking on air. She tried to scream but couldn't find the breath.

Suddenly Fenrir stopped, and through watery eyes, Hermione could see him sniffing the air, clearly sensing someone's approach. With a snarl and one last kick to her stomach, Fenrir leaned in close to her.

"You will be mine, bitch," he growled in promise, and then disappeared into the trees. Hermione curled into a ball and cried, the pain coursing intensely through her body. It hurt to breathe, let alone move.

She heard footsteps approaching and realized that whoever Fenrir might have heard would not be a friend to her either. She dragged herself to the nearest large tree she could and held very still as the stranger came closer and suddenly stopped. She held her breath, but released it when she heard the sound of a zipper being pulled and piss falling on leaves. The person left in a matter of minutes. She lay there even after the footsteps had passed and faded, for how long she didn't know.

She had to move, had to get up. She tried to stand, and managed to do so on shaky legs and with a dizzy head. Her stomach was killing her, and few of her ribs felt cracked. Her face was a bloody mess, her lips and eyes puffy already. Her body would be a colorful mass of bruises, she bet grimly. Leaning heavily on the many trees surrounding her, Hermione tried to continue her trek to the stream. It was only just light out now; it was incredible how little time had passed when it felt like every second was hours long.

The rushing sound of water called to her, and she was nearly at the bank when she felt liquid running down her thigh. She unbuttoned her jeans, reaching downwards quickly to affirm that it was blood.

She swore her heart stopped. No, she must have cut herself. She must have been scratched during the attack. The blood must be coming from...somewhere else. It _must _be.

Frantically, Hermione stripped herself of her clothes down to her underwear. The dull ache in her abdomen turned piercing for a moment before fading, making her gasp. She looked down at herself, confirming her fears. Blood dribbled from her sex in a slow ooze.

This was not normal. She'd read in the Muggle's book that spotting could happen, but not this. Not shudders of pain, and surely not so much blood. This was not part of pregnancy.

Panic took over her, and she couldn't breathe properly. Was this...miscarriage?

No. _No._

It couldn't be. Not to her. Not to her baby. Not now.

She had no idea how to deliver a baby, even a stillborn. The thought horrified and repulsed her. And she was completely alone. Even if she did find someone, she wouldn't and couldn't trust them for help.

Hermione forced a breath in and out to overcome her panic. There was no escaping this, and she had to face it.

She tugged at her underwear, inspecting herself. Aside from the blood, she didn't _look_ any different down there. Yet. Whatever was growing inside her shouldn't be very big, she thought, desperately trying to maintain control of herself. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against her tree as what must be another contraction hit her. She could do nothing but lay and wait. She tried not to cry, and shook uncontrollably with the effort.

A terrible feeling was forcing its way into her mind, pervading her insides and making her chest constrict tightly. It was an incredibly personal, horrible feeling of loss and grief. She couldn't ignore it, and a few choked sobs forced their way out of her throat. Her hands clutched wildly at clumps of dirt in moss, trying to distract her.

She thought she was just about to lose control when the pain began to recede. The horrible achiness faded from her abdomen, leaving her incredibly exhausted. Confused, she tentatively reached a hand down to her vagina, touching and probing the sensitive area. No more blood had been expelled.

For a long time Hermione lay there, not daring to believe. But by the time the sun was nearly at eleven o'clock she finally sat upright. She winced at the pain from Fenrir's beating, but that awful feeling was gone.

Maybe...

Breath escaped her shallowly. Maybe her baby was okay. Maybe the her pain and fear had everything to do with Fenrir and nothing to do with her baby.

A laugh escaped her, wild and crude in the otherwise quiet woods. She clapped a hand over her mouth, startled at the sound. Her eyes closed in quiet relief and she hugged her knees to her chest, shaking with exhaustion and emotion.

Pulling her clothes back on was a chore. Her pants were stained with blood and wet from the stream. Hermione washed herself gingerly in the stream, mindful of her wounds, before she tugged the jeans up to her hips. Her shirt she wrung out in the water as well before redressing. The cold cloth made her skin prickle and her teeth chatter.

Moving slowly and as quietly as she could, Hermione returned to Scabior's tent without being seen. She felt incredibly drained. Discarding her wet clothes and exchanging them for the dry, clean ones of Scabior's, Hermione let herself fall gently onto the bed. She didn't even have the energy to cry anymore. She hugged her stomach, making inaudible shushing noises to her baby until she fell asleep.

* * *

><p>She was awoken much later by Scabior's bellows, her body shaken roughly from sleep. She gasped as his hands gripped bruises on her arms. He retracted them instantly, and Hermione gauged through the veil of sleepiness that he wasn't angry with her directly, but was most definitely angry.<p>

"What the _fuck_," Scabior seethed, "happened to you?" His tone strained between fury and anxiety. Hermione sat up and delivered him a stonewalled look.

_He's one of your men. _Your _company that _you _keep. _

She was suddenly angry at Scabior for everything that happened to her today. She knew it was irrational, but Fenrir was _his _goddamn comrade and Scabior _knew _he was dangerous. If Fenrir wasn't around in the first place, if she wasn't held prisoner-bound to Scabior at all...her gaze narrowed, her contempt clearly reflected in her face.

Scabior caught the look and immediately stopped his barrage. He knelt in front of her beside the bed.

"Tell me, love," he commanded softly, "Who did this?" Hermione pursed her lips and said nothing. She could feel the tension between them, could feel the anger bubbling in her chest. Scabior sighed.

"You've got to tell me," he repeated, "Please, Hermione-"

She slapped him. Hard, across the face. The sound echoed impossibly in the spacious tent. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, fear and distress consuming her anger in milliseconds. Time slowed to an agonizing pace as she wondered what he'd do to her. Tears pricked her eyes and started to fall as she watched Scabior.

Scabior stayed still for a long moment, but then brought a hand slowly to his reddened face, licking blood from his lip where his tooth had punctured the skin. He stared at her, and she could sense the bewilderment he felt. She watched as his emotions fluctuated between anger and confusion and he seemed at a loss for words.

Hermione's stilted crying continued, and she did not move from her spot on the bed, hand over her mouth still.

Tensed for violence, Hermione was surprised when Scabior stood wordlessly and made to leave the tent. Involuntarily, her arm flailed out, catching the hem of his leather jacket and tugging. She felt an overwhelming sense of needing him, needing company, needing comfort.

Scabior turned about, and she could already see a slight swell on his face from where she hit him.

_Please, _she begged him, _Stay with me._

_I cannot bear to be alone._

She was so tired still, in so much pain. She hated that her heart ached when Scabior turned away from her again, walking away. Her breath caught in her chest as if she'd been punched. Hermione drew her knees to her chest and buried her face in her hands, rocking gently in self-comfort, trying to stop her ridiculous crying.

_Why are you crying over someone who never cared about you? _She chastised herself fruitlessly.

When the edge of the bed tipped downwards, her head shot up. Scabior was watching her inquisitively, holding a jar of healing salve in his hands. He opened it as she watched, and gathered some on his hands.

"Will you let me, love?" He asked gently. He was not angry with her now, she could tell by his tone. He was asking permission to help her, to touch her. Hermione felt herself nod in acquiescence, despite her confusion and wariness.

He started first with her arms, then her shoulders and back. She let him remove her shirt and watched as his eyes narrowed at the colorful sight. He gently massaged the salve into the bruised skin about her ribcage, soothing her pain. His hands grazed over her stomach and she felt her breath hitch, wondering if he would notice the slight swell to her tummy. He gave no indication of something being amiss though, and continued his ministrations with her thighs and calves. Hermione let herself relax, not bothered by her nakedness in front of him.

When he stopped, he rested his hands on her knees, gently pushing them apart. He stared at her center, then met her eyes.

"Love, did they...?" He seemed to have trouble phrasing the crime that he himself committed daily. Hermione shook her head vehemently, and Scabior seemed to sigh in relief. He leaned in and kissed her mound, but withdrew when she feebly tried to close her legs.

He treated her bruised face last, tenderly touching her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips. He finished with another soft kiss that she neither rejected nor reciprocated.

Scabior made to close the jar, but Hermione's hand darted out quickly to take it from him. Blushing at her brazen movement, she dipped her finger into the salve and reached up to his face. Hesitating for only a moment, and concentrating solely on the corner of his mouth, she dabbed it onto his skin. She saw a ghost of a smile on his lips as she did so.

"I've taken worse hits before, love," he told her, but he let her put the cream on anyway. Hermione refused to look into his eyes, feeling unreasonably shy. When they were finished he returned the salve to its proper place and joined her in bed. Needing comfort, Hermione faced into his chest tonight, sighing against his skin as he wrapped an arm about her protectively. He kissed her forehead and for once she didn't cringe away.

Before she fell asleep, she heard him breathe the word, "_Mine_."

* * *

><p>She woke up with her back to Scabior, having turned over in the night. She could feel his muscled torso against hers, and could tell by his breathing pattern that he was awake.<p>

"Mornin' love," he whispered lowly, and shifted his body so she could feel his hardened length rub against her. Hermione closed her eyes briefly, and jumped when he ran his hand down her arm and sides, stopping just above her knee. She wasn't surprised at his actions, but was surprised at the sensation. She glanced at her partially exposed body; her bruises were gone, all traces of yesterday's onslaught vanished with the healing salve. The new skin was alight with sensation and sensitivity, making her breath hitch.

Scabior sensed this and moved his hand lightly back up the inside of her thigh, making her shiver. His fingers circled around her mound, rubbing her outer lips in tantalizing motions. When he finally grazed her clit she couldn't help but gasp. She pressed her mouth against her knuckles as he continued to play with her lazily. This slowness, the tenderness-this was all foreign to Hermione. Her flesh blazed with sensation.

Scabior began to move behind her, his length running between her legs in slow thrusts. His arms circled her hips and waist now as he gained better leverage. She heard him groan appreciatively at the sensation, and she couldn't help but join him, his penis grinding deliciously against her clit as he humped her.

She could feel herself getting wet, their actions becoming slick. She felt so aroused, she couldn't help it. Scabior lifted her leg and rested it on top of his, opening her up. He hissed when he finally entered her. She ached, half with pain from yesterday and half from desire. He thrust up into her, hips flexing powerfully. She moaned, gripping the sheets tightly as he moved. From his position every thrust met that spot inside of her that made her vision blur. She gasped out her pleasure, and it was all she could do to not cry out.

His movements were becoming arrhythmic now, and she could tell he was close. She was, too. She closed her eyes to revel in the sensation, bucking against him. When his hand returned to her clit she wasn't expecting it, and he rubbed her vigorously. She moaned and writhed, the sensation overpowering, but he didn't let up, relentless. She came with a stifled scream, clenching down around him hard. He continued to rub her through her orgasm, thrusting through her tensed muscles until she felt him release inside her.

They lay panting for several minutes afterwards, Hermione nestled comfortably against Scabior. He held her possessively in his arms. She was almost sorry when he withdrew from her. He rolled her onto her back and kissed her soundly, and she didn't resist.

"I knew you'd learn to enjoy this, love," he murmured against her temple, kissing her sweaty brow.

Hermione tensed at his words, her mind a whirlwind of emotion as she watched him rise and get dressed. He left her in the tent with a losing struggle between depraved enjoyment and moral dignity. She couldn't even summon the courage to hate him for it, for it was her own weakness and her own mind that were making her suffer now.

* * *

><p>Welcome back, Scamione shippers! If you'd like to leave hate mail for me taking forever to update, I accept. Alternatively, if you have any thoughts or ideas for the story those would be cool to read too. I enjoy all of you scene-solicitors and plot-predictors immensely =] Though my posting rate doesn't clearly reflect this, each review means a lot to me and all of them change the way I think and plan for this story. I hope everyone is having a fabulous February so far!<p>

Enthalpically yours,

E-A


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